


Serving Tremaine

by Grondfic



Category: City of Vice tv series, The Masqueraders - Georgette Heyer
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-05-15 01:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5766613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grondfic/pseuds/Grondfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the eve of his wedding to Letty, the Hon. Robin Tremaine finds himself nostalgic for his alter-ego, Kate Merriot.</p><p>Meanwhile at The Shakespeare Head public house, Dan Carne - down on his luck after his summary dismissal from Magistrate Fielding's Runners after that unfortunate affair in Samuel Drybutter's Molly House - is suddenly called back for a special mission concerning an escaped Jacobite ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wedding Eve

**Author's Note:**

> 1. **WARNING** : Dan Carne is a manumitted slave. There are some disturbing scenes concerning treatment of slaves in a later chapter. Also some (fairly mild) use of 18th century terminology for people of Afro-Caribbean origin.
> 
> 2\. _City of Vice_ was a UK Channel 4 TV series that aired in 2008. It concerned the origins of the Bow Street Runners (precursors of the Police Force.) Details here - http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1044196/ 
> 
> 3\. The part of Dan Carne was played by Sean Francis - http://vignette2.wikia.nocookie.net/merlin1/images/5/5e/Sean_Francis.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20101208100015

It was the eve of the wedding.

The Old Gentleman in a bustle of lofty preparation and gargantuan expenditure, had taken all in hand; leaving the Hon Robin Tremaine very little to do but …. become a married man. He’d been waiting on this event for so long that the whole notion had begun to pall somewhat.

Prue –a year wed, and expanding now into a veritable Earth Mother – seemed sadly out of reach to her brother. Egad – t’would be monstrous unfair to burden her now with his own misgivings!

Robin surveyed himself in the pier-glass in his dressing-room at Barham. His blue eyes and delicately arched brows were all – now – that reminded him of bold Kate Merriot. The golden hair – lavishly powdered – was tied back straitly and confined at his nape with a decent black ribbon. His role demanded stylish masculinity; and this Robin Tremaine possessed in abundance.

That was all very well: he mused: but still, at heart he was less Viscount than Adventurer.

And …. there was Kate.

Indeed, there was some part of him still that languished; that pined for tobine-stripes and a straw confection with ribands. He even missed the stays!

Faith, but much of his female wardrobe was still here! Impossible to pass such intimate garments to Pru; and even without the stays, he was the fortunate possessor of a slighter figure than his queenly sister.

The notion of Escape flitted through his mind; but even now – a full three years after his daring imposture – he dare not, for his life, reappear as Kate Merriot. As a woman alone, therefore, he must needs enact the role of a woman of pleasure. There were places, he’d heard about, in the malodorous warren of streets in London’s Covent Garden.

He sighed. Needs must when the Devil drives. So bold Kate must perforce make way for Lucie Lightskirt – and indeed, the Devil only knew where that might lead.

Even John would not know him in his drab’s garb: he reflected ruefully as he rapidly divested himself of his male attire. Lucky then, that Miss Lucie had very little to do with stays; or indeed, under-smocks of any kind. He’d picked up this draggled one-piece dress in a ditch near Barham.

He hastily freed his long hair, and drew a brush through it with an impatient hand. Wrapping a grimy kerchief around his head, he topped off the whole ensemble with a filthy hat, its woven brim unravelling and rapidly reverting to its native straw.

Pausing, then, only to seize and bundle up any small but valuable item that caught his eye, he presently stole down the privy stair, through the maze of back sculleries, and so into the kitchen garden.

Dusk was falling. As he followed the path that ran the length of a south-facing wall covered by ranks of espaliered apricocks, he became aware of vague movement ahead. This might be nothing, but Robin would take no chances. His duelling sword being temporarily out-of-reach beneath his skirts, he slid a small dagger from his sleeve, and proceeded soft-footed.

Swift though his swordsman’s reflexes were, he nonetheless missed the shadow that materialised seemingly from the darkened air, until he was seized and pinned to the wall.

“And what might a daggle-tail like yourself be doing on My Lord Barham’s land?” demanded a hoarse voice in his ear, “Thieving belike; and your bag stuffed with your ill-gotten loot. Ah! Would ye now?”

Even as Robin recognised John’s well-known tones, his wrist was caught in a crushing grip and forced violently back to the wall; causing him, in spite of himself, to hiss in pain.

He knew that this game would be up at any second. However –

“I’ve a thing beneath my skirt will make a fair bargain wi’ ye, my pretty man!”

John swore beneath his breath, and loosed his death grip on Robin’s wrist. The dagger clattered to the ground.

“Master Robin, what game is this on the eve of yer wedding? What would Mistress Letty say?” the man’s voice held less surprise than exasperation.

“An you deign to tell her, John, you’d maybe find out!”

“She’ll not learn aught from me, Master Robin!” answered the man grimly, “Only allowing, of course, that ye’re back where ye should be, come the morning!”

“Damn you, John!”

“Belike I shall be; following Tremaine! Now – will ye return to yer quarters, and tell me what this may-game might mean?”

Robin sighed, defeated. His attempted escape had been ill-judged; half-inviting John’s discovery. In fact, that part of him that WAS Kate had been in a flutter of near-anticipation of the dour manservant’s arrival; he admitted to himself.

He retraced his steps to his apartments, his grim Nemesis stalking at his heels.

* * * *

The Shakespeare Head tavern was full tonight; and Dan – down on his luck and shabby – was scarce able to find a berth there. He was also hard put to it even to produce the wherewithal for a penn’orth of bad gin.

He drank it down morosely, and reflected that he was less free now to come and go, than when he had been an indentured slave. At least then – as footman to My Lord and Lady Lowestoft – he’d had bed and board all found, and ready access to a procession of open-fisted and pretty lordlings, willing and able to afford his discreet services. 

They’d paid generously enough that, soon after the death of My Lord, he’d approached My Lady offering to buy-out his indenture. Capricious creature that she was, Lady Lowestoft had granted it for nothing; but then dismissed him from her service, on the grounds that Sir Roger’s Caribbean plantation would supply a dozen more like him, without the necessity of a wage-bill.

Freedom itself had soon eaten up the golden guineas in his purse; so he had turned almost puritan and law-abiding; taking a post with the Fielding brothers of Bow Street. They had high ideas; those magistrates; but Dan had fallen foul of the very law he was supposed to be upholding; and so parted from them.

 _Idealism be damned!_ : he thought, draining his bumper.

 _And love too_ : he added, thinking about Tom, a fellow-servant he’d met and swived at Mistress Sukie’s upstairs rooms. The thought of his lover, swinging at Tyburn for a murder committed on his account made him both angry and melancholy. He needed another drink!

Before he was able to check his slender purse for a further penny, a second pewter vessel was placed before him with a crash.

“Daniel Carne! A pint of porter, courtesy of the Bow Street Magistracy, your erstwhile employer!”

Dan leaned against the rough wall at his back, and glanced upwards. His eye encountered the grim, grey length of Saunders Welch, High Constable of Holborn, who loomed over him menacingly.

“The Blind Beak has need of you, _Jamaica Mary_!”

“What now?” sighed Dan, ignoring for the moment, the use of his molly-house name.

“Now? You do as you’re bid! May I remind you we’ve enough on you to ensure the pillory and Newgate; my fine Ethiop-Adonis. You had your choice to be one of us – Fielding’s Runners – and you threw it in their faces, all for the sake of a murdering molly. Master John doesn’t forget – nor he don’t forgive!”

Dan broke eye-contact, lifting the tankard to his lips and taking a delicate sip. He was angry, of course; but below that, lay a reluctant hint of speculation.

It must be a serious matter, to bring Welch here in person to him. Normally any little jobs that Welch wanted were retailed to him by Big Pentlow, who generally wasted no opportunity to inform Dan that he was a family man; and would take great pains to keep his person at least one foot away from him.

Dan lowered the cup; his face expressionless.

“What’s to do?” he enquired mildly.

Saunders Welch appeared to hesitate. As he did so, there was a slight stir at the door; movement and the rhythmic clatter of a stick on the flags. Dan, recognising it, stiffened even as Welch sprang to his feet.

“Over here, Master Fielding!”

This was serious! Dan watched as the blind man tapped his unerring way over the flagstones towards the sound of Welch’s voice. 

John Fielding had the ascetic good looks of a dedicated saint; and indeed it was he who was the more fanatical about sin than his more easy going (and peccadillo-prone) brother, the novelist Henry.

It had been John who had spoken; urgently, privately and almost intimately to Dan; holding out hope both of his soul’s salvation, and worldly respectability if Dan would but renounce ‘temptation’. He had however, also required Dan’s specialist knowledge of the secretive demi-monde of molly houses and pick-up venues within the purview of the Bow Street Magistracy.

That had been the finish of Dan as a Runner. His enquiries had led him straight back to Mistress Sukie’s; and to Tom’s bed – in which he was apprehended by his own colleagues the following morning.

If Dan hated anyone in the world more than he’d hated Sir Roger Lowestoft, it was this blind man approaching the table.

“Mr Carne!” John Fielding hovered over the table like a hornet, “I trust ye’re prospering in your Godless walk of life?”

“Hardly, sir!” replied Dan drily.

“Ah! Then t’would mayhap profit us, all three, to adjourn to Will’s Chop House! It boasts a little more privacy; and the Magistracy has funds enough for three this evening. The night air will refresh us. Shall we walk?”

Dan almost hugged himself as he bowed gravely and rose. This business must be both secret and urgent if they wanted privacy; and in addition would stand him a square meal to get it.

One more thing was also obvious to Dan. Whatever this thing was; whatever crime they were investigating; it had to do with the one area in which he might be said to have specialist expertise. – that bleak underworld where men sought refuge in the solace of their own kind.

* * * *

Robin, agitated, re-entered his dressing-room with a flounce. John, following sedately, closed the door without a sound, and leaned back against it.

“Well, Master Robin? Ye didn’t think to escape, surely? The Old Gentleman would have you back here before ever you reached the gates. And,” he added ruminatively, “The skin off my back to boot!”

Robin picked up a fan of exquisitely painted chicken-skin. He spread it slowly, examined the design, and finally lifted it before his face, fluttering it in perfect parody of _Beauty Surpriz’d_.

John of the wooden countenance merely continued to regard him. Robin could feel the steady gaze even through the fan. He was visited by a fleeting fancy that the chicken-skin was slowly roasting, bubbling and darkening beneath that unwavering beam of intense scrutiny.

There was no immediate escape-route. Robin lowered the fan (miraculously still pristine), and let his laughing, rueful blue eyes be seen,

“ ‘T’is naught, my John! An irritation of the nerves merely!” he sighed in genuine melancholy, “I adore Letitia; worship at her pretty little feet …. and yet …. and yet … I miss my petticoats, John! Those – places in Rome; and the _petits salons secrets_ in Paris. Even Munich had its demi-monde; a thought bucolic, ‘t’is true, but even so …”

John had many times followed His Young Lordship, _habillé en dame_ , to those places to be discovered in any city of size; haunts of the adventurous, the semi-nocturnal, the liminal from all parts of society. He permitted himself a meagre smile.

“D’ye think there’s naught in this England to distract you, sir? Do you but wed Mistress Letty on the morrow, you may live a life entirely blameless beneath the _bon papa_ ’s eye; and yet take advantage of the rigs and rows of London- town!”

Robin threw off his disgraceful headgear, sat down at his toilette, and rested his fair head on one slender hand. His eyes half-closed as he cogitated his servant’s proposal.

“And the Old Gentleman to know naught for sure?” he enquired at length.

John laughed grimly.

“Now would I be fool enough to give ye surety for that?”

“True! Well, then, let us plan for beyond-the-morrow!”

“There’ll be no more of Kate Merriot, sir? Promise me that!”

“Indeed! No telling who one might rub up against in … those places!”

“And I’m to accompany you, sir; as before?”

“Damn you, John, I’m beyond need for a nursemaid surely!”

“But not a bodyguard sir!” the servant grew mulish, “I’ll come, or neither of us won’t go! Besides … “ the glimmer of a smile, “You maybe need no nursemaid, but a tiring-maid now …. “

“Indispensible!” agreed Robin laughing, and giving in with a good grace, “’T’will be like old times, John!”

“It will! On your return from your honeymoon, I’ll have all prepared!”

“So long as that?” Robin was dismayed.

“Be sensible, sir!” besought his henchman, “Mistress Letty has the right to command your … attention as a new bride. Besides – if you but do your marital duty, sir, belike she’ll return in the family way; and that’s women’s business not yours! ‘T’will be easier so!”

“You’re a fount of all wisdom, John! Let it be as you say. But – hear you – I expect great things on my return!”

“You shall have them, sir!” promised John, maybe a trifle over-generous, in his relief.

* * * *  
Dan fell on the chops like a starving wolf. Saunders Welch was making fair inroads himself; but the Blind Beak contented himself with an austere (and very expensive) dish of bohea, taken without cream or sugar.

Fielding waited until the raucous sounds of the service being removed had died down before addressing himself to business.

“Mr Carne – I infer from the speed at which you disposed of your vittles, that ye’re hardly well-to-pass! Am I right?”

“Paid employ eludes me, sir; if that’s your meaning!” replied Dan, reflecting that the Beak should know this very well without the trouble of asking.

“Excellent!” murmured the blind man in a purring undertone, “Then – you’ll be open to a proposal, my fine buck-Ethiop!”

Dan swore; half rising. No-one had referred to him in those terms – not even Big Pentlow - whilst he was in the Runners. That Saunders Welch now used such language to him was, perhaps, understandable; but the blind man was goading him quite deliberately. His precipitate exit was, however, prevented by Welch’s heavy hand, spread across his upper chest like a splayed web of sprung-steel.

“Gently, gently, gentlemen! I but desired to ascertain how it stands with you, my friend. A steady berth and paid employ would not come amiss then?”

“You’ll be wanting a Bow-Street spy then?” guessed Dan resentfully.

“Mr Carne, if but your criminal sin came not between us, ‘t’is my contention you’d ha’ made a fine Runner!” declared Fielding in a tone of ironic regret, “D’ye care to venture aught further anent this affair?”

Dan felt he was on trial here. He took a sip of excellent burgundy, and meditated. Finally he spoke.

“A crime … no, a case-referred, since this surely came from someone On High, who called you in … urgently, or ye’d not have bustled me so! No; nor paid good coin for my entertainment either …!” Dan counted off the points on the fingers of his left hand, “A case, moreover, that concerns the demi-monde, of which you suppose me to have either greater knowledge or readier _entrée_ than yourselves. Also – since you took thought to remove us from the open bar of The Shakespeare to this discreetly-alcoved eating-place, I take leave to suppose the matter to be of the utmost secrecy. Well, gentlemen?”

Fielding tilted his head in Welch’s general direction.

“Observe!” he said softly, “Right in all particulars! ‘T’is a plain waste of great acuity; as well as of an artist in fisticuffs. What d’ye say to a second chance for Carne, Mr Welch?”

The High Constable’s face set into granite.

“I’d not myself countenance it!” he replied shortly.

“Ah, if but Mr Carne were to prove himself in this …. delicate affair of His Highness the Duke’s. What say you then?”

Welch’s eye flickered in his direction; and Dan perceived that this was a rehearsed dialogue, designed both to give another tantalising piece of information, and to offer him an inducement.

He decided to take the proffered bait.

“A Royal Duke, egad! Higher even than My Lord Newcastle? Then I’d hazard a guess that ‘t’is Cumberland and concerns the late Jabobite Rebellion! D’ye think to find an escaped rebel in a molly house, gentlemen?”

“It seems entirely possible!” the Blind Beak’s un-focussed smile spread menace over the table, “Tell me, Mr Carne, do you have any acquaintance, directly or by repute, with one, Robin Lacey?”


	2. Molly House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst Robin chooses a new identity, with a wardrobe to match, Dan makes himself at home at Samuel Drybutter's establishment in spite of his host's overt hostility. A fateful meeting is about to take place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. **WARNING** : for crossdressing and a certain amount of suggestive talk (18th century style)
> 
> 2\. Samuel Drybutter and 'Princess Serafina' were RL people (as indeed were the Fielding brothers and Saunders Welch).

“Kate must perforce be consigned to the Devil, sir!” announced John, “Therefore, firstly y’ll need either use hair-dye, or affect a perruke!”

“Umm …” murmured Robin inattentively as he wandered around the anonymous suite of rooms his henchman had hired, “T’is somewhat cramped here, my John; but sufficient to its purpose, as I’d suppose!”

“T’is but a _pied a terre_ , Master Robin; and in a part of Town not often frequented by the likes of Mistress Tremaine. Now … I have several dyes here which will render your hair dark, or red. Or – shall it be the perruke?”

Robin made a moue.

“A WIG, my John? I think not! Egad, I am not yet become The Widow Ochre! Hark ye – I beguiled many leisure hours in Venice with plans unknown to the Divine Letitia. Give me ear, John!”

“Of course, sir!” replied his henchman faintly.

“Farewell Kate Merriot! Farewell also, then, my late toilettes of blue, pink and cherry-stripe! And so – welcome to the Countess Constance of Ebbsfleet! Milady favours the passionate tones of blood and fire! Therefore – see!”

Robin dived into the topmost of a pile of bandboxes that he had acquired in Venice, in Rome and in Paris.

“The Countess is a very Child of Nature, _habillée_ almost _en jeune fille_. Therefore we eschew the enormity of hooped petticoats; preferring rather a modest gown in figured crimson covering barely-panniered underskirts of Faint Plum or Heart-of-Flame. Here they are! Also a plumed and wide-brimmed chapeau in ruched scarlet miniver. Rose-clocked stockings gartered with lace and ribands of hearts-blood. Buckled shoon with red heels – still thankfully _a la mode_. A pair of bodies, laced in crimson. The hair, as you say, John, either dark as Bess the Landlord’s black-eyed daughter; or porphyric as Messaline-returning. What say you, my John?”

John ran careful fingers over the spilled wealth of rich materials, gee-gaws, jewels and smaller items of clothing.

“Ye’ve given this much thought!” he opined.

“Yes, man, yes; but will it do? Will this filly run?”

“Aye! A pretty lady indeed, sir. A strong infusion of rose hips will lend red to your gold; and wash out easily enough with lemon juice. Let us make trial; and tomorrow eve we visit Miss Sukie’s bookshop on Saffron Hill. T’is almost respectable, Master Robin; though, faith, they simper and call one another by women’s names; even the bully-boys and sailors from the docks!”

“Well, I know that game sufficiently to make my mark, eh, my John?” said Robin in Kate’s low, husky whisper.

“Princess Serafina herself will be green with envy!” the servant laughed uneasily,“Would it be your desire, now, to retire? The bedroom is hardly as I’d wish, Master Robin, but it’s clean!”

“ _En avant_ , then! Produce me this bed!”

* * * *

Samuel Drybutter (alias Miss Sukie) was the fortunate possessor of a thriving business in books and documents. It allowed him a semi-freedom to accommodate – in its extensive, yet rather narrow upper rooms – one of those singular establishments (part social club, part knocking shop) known as Molly Houses.

He had also formed the charitable habit of allowing those mollies who were in trouble, poverty or love-sadness of any kind, to stay, _gratis_ , in the warren of little rooms beneath the roof. It was this kindliness: thought Dan wryly: which the Fieldings and Welch had exploited to the full in order to secure him lodgings here.

Miss Sukie had been less than pleased; yet was helpless under the threat of relentless magisterial harassment, to deny Dan a meagre haven here.

“You’re a traitor to your people … Daniel!” he’d said with bitter emphasis, “Miss Kitten swung for hours at Tyburn for love of you – yet ‘twas Princess Serafina who ended her suffering, not you! And now – here you come again, _Jamaica Mary_ , sniffing at the skirts of better – ahem – girls than you! You’ll be the Runners’-Moll now, belike; and have some unfortunate within your sights, I make no doubt!”

“The better for you not to be by!” responded Dan, who had small desire to involve Drybutter in the Magistrates’ business, “And I’ll go to Hell by my own road, I thank you! Now – where’s this lodging?”

“Beneath the roof-tiles!” replied Miss Sukie, adding spitefully, “I’ve assigned you Miss Kitten’s old room, so belike ye’ll know the way?”

So now Dan, masked, yet instantly recognisable as Jamaica Mary, had once again descended the single flight of stairs that gave onto Miss Sukie’s Receiving Rooms. 

Here – regaled with anything from quartern ale to angel cakes and ratafie – the Mollies socialised, danced, sang, and performed their odd mating rituals; in assumed and cosy anonymity.

Miss Sukie made a moue, and raised expressive eyes heavenwards at sight of Dan.

“Not trying your luck elsewhere then, Jamaica Mary?” he asked hopefully.

“Not tonight,” said Dan pleasantly, “So I’ll take a glass of burgundy and a dozen oysters to recruit my strength; and prepare to entertain your … guests, Miss Sukie!”

Miss Sukie swore in a manner not at all ladylike; but was later seen sending The Boy to an adjacent stall for the oysters.

Dan settled in, snug in a corner-seat commanding a view of the stair-head which carried its freight of human frailty from the Respectable-Below, to the forbidden excitement of Above.

* * * *

“There’s a whiff of the _bourgeois_ about this, my John!” announced Robin as the two of them ascended the rickety stair from the bookshop.

“Hsst! We’ve to preserve strict anonymity here, Master R .. erm … Countess!”

Robin flirted with his eyes; taking in the long suite of rooms; and – _en passant_ – shamelessly ogling the masked Ethiop who had commandeered the prime corner-table.

“ _Mais naturellement_!” he replied to his henchman, “But – why did I never come here before? Egad – ‘t’is more replete with _espièglerie_ even than Venice!”

“Shh! Shall Your Ladyship partake? There’s ratafie, canary, claret or ….. “

“Oh – ratafie of course! I’ve not tasted it since Thérèse’s last ball. Produce me a glass my … Maggie!”

John grunted and withdrew. Robin, left to his own devices, unfurled a flame-tinted fan and raised it to cover his face. From the shelter of this delicately filigreed protection, he continued his leisurely perusal of the room.

This was exciting! The Molly Houses of London appeared to cater for all tastes, and all walks of humanity, here in this throbbing centre of trade, new wealth and ancient culture.

Robin caught the deep mask-shadowed eyes of the Ethiop once again. Egad, t’was a pretty man; having all the allure of the Unknown, with his brown skin and large, expressive dark gaze. He lowered the fan a _soupçon_ , snapped it shut, and made his languid way to the corner-table.

* * * *

Dan had watched the newcomer in wondering disbelief. Mistress Kate Merriot, as he lived and breathed!

True, the hair now glowed darker, with a sparkling red-gold aura; and the whole _Tone_ was gently changed from English Rose in azure, pink and cherry, to exotic seductress in flame, crimson, scarlet and Distant Sunrise. However – the delicate profile with its fascinating small straight nose, resolute chin and soaring cheekbones, was exact. The fine irony in the blue eyes was just as Dan remembered.

This was truly marvellous! A Masquerade so exact, so minutely executed, that he – and the _Ton_ – had been completely hoodwinked. Now – in this fresh and more apposite milieu – it was more obvious that ‘Kate’ was a man; but back when Dan had still been Indentured to My Lady Lowestoft, the imposture had been perfect.

This put a different complexion on things! For a man to assume female garb for so long a period, there must needs be sufficient cause! And what more urgent than the threat of Tyburn or the Tower; and the ugly names of Traitor and Jacobite? 

Perhaps that tenuous suggestion emanating from Scotland and retailed to Magistrate Fielding via the Duke’s people had been correct. Several other known traitors – including Charles Edward himself – had been known latterly to have passed for women during their daring escapes.

Dan took a deep breath, and prepared to accost the newcomer. He was moderately certain that he himself had passed beneath the notice of My Lady’s youthful guests during that Memorable Season. My Lady had a passion for Plantation-born footmen and pages. He was one of several, after all.

Before he could move, however, he noted in astonished and delighted disbelief, that the pretty lady was drifting, apparently aimlessly, towards his table.

* * * *

Robin arrived at his destination in due course; unfurled his fan and fluttered it before his lower face. Above it, his eyes made reckless promises.

“Are you alone, Mysterious Stranger?” he enquired in the shy tone of a _faux-ingenue_.

The Ethiop’s eyes glinted like polished jet from the depths of his barely-concealing mask.

“As you perceive!” he replied grandly, rising to his feet over the discarded debris of deceased sea-life, “Please to be seated, Milady … erm…?”

“Constance, Countess Ebbsfleet!” supplied Robin glibly, “And I do address the Patriarch of the realm of Prester John?”

“Alas, you mistake, Fair One,” riposted the dark Adonis, “Plain Jamaica Mary – at your service!”

The Ethiop rose, pulled out a chair and inclined his head politely. Robin – enjoying this play immensely – swept a curtsey, before occupying the seat.

Faced now with a semi-devoured plate of oysters, he stretched out slender fingers to snatch one. Turning a saucy profile to the blackamoor, he raised his face and tipped the contents of the shell down his gullet.

Swallowing audibly, he reached shamelessly for the Ethiop’s wine glass and took a substantial sip of what turned out to be a tolerable Burgundy.

_“All sorts of meats I do preserve_  
_All sorts of drinks that's fitting for him_  
_Both oyster pie and rhubarb too_  
_But that don't put no courage in him!”_ he sang, _sotto voce_.

The Ethiop showed very white teeth in an appreciative grin.

“Courage is my second name, sweet lady!” he said in low, intense tones, “Does it please you to finish the meal with me? Though – alas – rhubarb is sorely out of season.”

Robin dimpled.

“Alas indeed! We must perforce rely on oysters, then!” he remarked, and set to with a will.

* * * * 

John, returning with the ratafie and a plate of tiny, exquisite almond biscuits, sought his master in vain. In the swirl of extreme fashion (both male and female), masked visages, and continuous stream of high chatter, he found himself rather at a loss.

Turning hastily away from an overdressed, if somewhat tawdry figure in an outmoded mantua and grubby wig, which announced itself, with a suggestive leer, as Princess Serafina; he almost fell over a short, slightly tubby personage who gave a thrilled shriek, and clung on. Recovering himself with a muttered apology. John found himself staring into the cherubic features of Samuel Drybutter – Miss Sukie – the proprietor.

“I’m all of a flutter, you forward thing! It’s been an AGE since anyone threw themselves at me!”

“Thousand pardons,” muttered John with a reprehensible lack of politesse, “But I must find Milady … erm .. the Countess … "

Miss Sukie disengaged, regarding John with a sapient eye.

“Missie Maggie, ain’t it? Yeeees! And you’re seeking that absolutely ravishing creature in the crimson chapeau? Egad, Princess Serafina is quite cast in the shade; and is Positively Green, I assure you! There’s many’s a reigning beauty would kill for that complexion, that figure, and the _espièglerie_!”

“That’s as may be!” muttered John, “But I must get back to Master … Erm … The Countess!”

“In the inglenook, Missie Maggie,” Miss Sukie pointed towards an invisible corner, “Making shameless eyes at Jamaica Mary!” 

The man appeared to hesitate, and then – just as John would have plunged off – grasped at his wrist and breathed very low, “A word to the wise, my dear?”

John, though desperate to get back to Master Robin, recognised a certain significance in the tone; and paused, leaving his hand still grasped in that of Drybutter.

“Jamaica Mary – or Daniel, as she now prefers - is a pretty Adonis, but ….. walks a little too close to Bow Street, if you take my meaning! I know full well – since I’m constrained to feed and house her – that she has her Associates, so to speak! I’d advise your Countess not to have too close dealings with such an one as Jamaica Mary! You understand?”

“I do!” responded John grimly, “And ‘t’is in my mind that we stand somewhat in your debt, Miss Sukie!”

“Oh go on with you, sweet man! Come to the bookshop some morning ‘twixt ten o’ the clock and midday, and I’ll mayhap think of a way you may requite me! I have a great … admiration .. for loyalty and care, Mistress Maggie!”

John eyed the man doubtfully, until a reluctant glimmer of humour touched the corners of his mouth.

“I’m flattered, of course, but …. My heart was given long since!”

“What ails the man that he thinks I cannot see that for myself?” Miss Sukie enquired of the ambient air, “Y’re welcome nonetheless! Live for the day, Mistress Maggie; and let the cares of tomorrow fall .. on the morrow!”

Frowning, John scanned the upturned face before him. Then he nodded once in recognition and salute to the decent honesty of the proposition.

“Beware, Miss Sukie, for I may accept! And – thank you!” He stopped to press his lips chastely against the plump cheek before ploughing once again into the throng.

The corner table was, however, empty of anything save a dish of broken shells, ravished of their contents; and an empty tankard.


	3. An amorous interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan's luck is most definitely in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter is NC17 rated.

Dan found himself unable to believe his luck! Not only was the mysterious _Countess_ sufficiently suspect as to be of interest to his masters in Bow Street, but _she_ was clearly willing to spread _her_ shapely legs for him without further ado!

As he guided _her_ urgently up the steep, narrow stairway to his room (the panniers of _her_ skirts, and the trailing scarlet-dyed peacock feather in _her chapeau_ brushing the wall on either side), Dan resolved to make the very most of this night.

To hell with Bow Street! He could easily placate Welch and the Fieldings on the morrow with a minute description of his lovely companion.

Tonight, he resolved to take all that was offered (and maybe more …); and in the Langorous Aftermath, gain any information that might be of use to the Magistrates; or indeed – to this lovely _Countess_ (who might perchance be willing to pay handsomely to avoid the attentions of Welch, the Fieldings; and even His Grace of Cumberland).

Dan flung open his bedroom door and – with Town-house-trained _politesse_ – ushered His _Lady_ into his inner sanctum.

* * * *

Robin glanced around in thrilled anticipation. The setting was, however, hardly _comme il faut_! A servant’s quarters beneath the eaves; lacking even curtains to the bed, or water and stand for washing was not – any more - what he was accustomed to!

However – the bare necessities being present, Robin made haste to reassure his new _bel ami_ with a dazzling smile, full of promise.

The Ethiop, who had behaved throughout with the ingrained punctiliousness of an upper footman, closed the door softly, and turning, removed the mask and threw him a very warm look.

“What is Your Ladyship’s pleasure?” he asked, mild beams of Sincerity emanating from his lambent eyes.

Robin laughed. This was surely turning into a trashy novel!

“Excellently well-conned, i’faith! Use me as you would one of your doxies, and I’ll be well content!”

For one instant the dark eyes devouring him became round with astonishment; and then Jamaica Mary’s face lit with unholy joy. With a roar he threw off his tie-wig to reveal a close-cropped head of dark hair too short to curl; and began – with positively indecent haste – to divest himself of coat, waistcoat, stock, and the shirt with its threadbare ruffles.

Excellent! A well bred ease of manner was hardly what Robin the risk-taker wanted in his paramours!

“Can you discard that gown, or do I swive an ocean of petticoats merely?” asked the man breathlessly.

“Alack! I TOLD Mistress Maggie I should have worn a morning-gown! I can but unpin the _fichu_ – so; and raise the skirts ….. thus …….. “

* * * *

Dan gasped at the sight. _Milady_ ’s skin was whiter than any he had yet beheld, but withal, a faint, coral-tinted blush ran beneath.

 _Her_ rosy man-paps were set-off and well displayed by the veriest hint of developed musculature. They were, moreover, aureoled by a sprinkling of fine hairs that transformed in the flickering light to transient gleams of golden fire.

Below, as the plethora of petticoats lifted, _her_ snowy thighs swelled above clocked silk stockings sustained above the knee with red-gartering. At the apex and cleft, a delicate blond bush gave up a slender flesh-rod, suffused and blushing with desire.

“I was at least correct in my estimation of your sex!” said Dan, “Ye’d pass in general; being somewhat superior to Princess Serafina in my humble opinion.”

The blue eyes that regarded him above the lifted hem of the petticoat, and below the delicately pencilled brows we brimful both of mischief and of a certain dreamy wistfulness.

“Alas! Before your dusky charms and .. er .. poised spear I feel all a woman! What would you, then, my Ethiop Achilles?” 

Dan felt a flush of anger rising into his face. Thus were his people regularly described – as heroic Children of Nature - by the unheeding, primping society poetasters; whereas the harsh reality of their lives was far far otherwise. 

“May we dispense with the poxy classical allusion?” he requested with something of a growl.

The _Countess_ lowered _her_ skirts fractionally to reveal a face alive with laughter. To his chagrin, Dan realised that _she_ had been deliberately provoking him.

With a roar – half fury and half something he hardly knew – he launched himself across the tiny space, determined to subdue his _Madam Mocker_ , and direct _her_ wildness into a satisfactory Way of Correction.

The _Countess_ received the shock of his onslaught as a rock withstands the depredations of an incoming tide. Shapely hands clamped around his ears with surprising strength; and pulled him – agonised and unwilling – into a bruising kiss. 

The forced intimacy was too close for Dan; and he attempted a recoil; but was caught in a conflict of mouth on mouth; a fanged and stinging caress; a combat of tongue, teeth and bitten lips. It had the flavour of a back-alley brawl; and was definitively not _bon ton_.

The _Countess_ , he decided, was nothing but a rabid bitch.

* * * *

Robin, working his new paramour into a fury of violent, bewildered, imperative desire, felt once again a thrill he thought had been left long behind him. It belonged to the stinking backstreets of Paris and the poorer quarters of Prague or Munich. Or – indeed – to the wild hills and lonely places between Culloden Moor and Perth, where a broken Prince with a lost cause had demanded rough and violating comfort in his willing flesh.

How could he have happened once again on this wild pleasure in staid and hierarchical London; where Robin Lacey was no more, and he was the heir of Barham merely?

He gave the Ethiop all the freedoms that the restricting garments would allow, wishing that he had found a strength to appear _en dishabille_ at Miss Sukie’s soiree.

Jamaica Mary disengaged from the rough wooing, leaving Robin with a sore mouth, and the coppery tang of blood in his throat.

He ran his tongue over swollen lips, and took the opportunity to tilt the wide-brimmed hat to a more _a propos_ angle. The trailing feather caught his _beau_ in the eye, causing him to flinch back, Robin, freed for a moment, fell backwards and achieved a wanton sprawl across the bed; thighs splayed, skirts hiked to waist-level, and exposed upper-torso prominently displayed.

“Noble Savage!” he crooned, “Cupid’s Garden is fairly displayed for your .. convenience. Come! Let us play in your rude, yet free and curiously innocent fashion!”

. .. and if THAT didn’t fetch him: Robin thought smugly: nothing would!

* * * *

Dan – out of his senses now with raw fury – scrabbled inelegantly at his remaining clothing; throwing britches and stockings unheedingly around the room.

“Fiend seize you, BITCH! Take your just deserts!” he screamed and, landing squarely between _her_ spread thighs, applied teeth and nails to _her_ exposed paps in mindless, retributory assault.

 _Milady_ was bucking and screaming beneath him; not, he realised hazily, in protest but rather imperative encouragement. _Her_ language – what he caught of it – was picturesque in the extreme.

His fury declined by degrees; making way for desire and – unexpectedly – a semi-reluctant hilarity. _Her_ language really did belong to the taproom! How had _she_ come by it?

Dan raised his head, and then his upper torso; hoisting himself up on stiff and straightened arms to contemplate his partner’s lovely face.

“Well, _Milady_? Being temporarily in my right mind, I suggest ye prepare for boarding!”

“ _En avant alors_! Your ready stem to my stern; and taken in surprize! Let me up, my pretty Ethiop, so as I may surrender in Due Form!”

Dan, back to himself now, and eager to engage, nonetheless paused to laugh down into the lambent pools of _her_ azure eyes.

“Oh, rogue!! Ye’ve a dangerous propensity for sailing close to the wind! Turn upsides, then! Hoist those pesky skirts and take y’r conqueror!”

* * * *

Robin, smarting beneath the Ethiop’s heroic assault, was ripe now, and over-ready for action below-decks.

Shifting daintily in the limited space allowed, he rolled onto his belly, flung brocade skirt, petticoat and shift over his head; and settled on elbows and splayed knees; awaiting his destiny.

It was not long in coming.

Jamaica Mary, seizing his arse-cheeks in both fists, parted them and plunged rudely within, sliding past the initial barrier with ease and sheathing to the hilt with little difficulty. That application of rose-oil was well worth the trouble!

“Whore! Ye came prepared!” the Ethiop whispered gustily.

Robin – filled to repletion, snatched breath for a suitable riposte.

“ _D’accord_! Whores .. and Swordsmen both will fare forth … with due foresight … “

The man was thrusting now with the heavy pace and regularity of a Constable’s staff on the head of a miscreant.

Within his airy cavern of hooped brocade, underlinen, and the miniver and trailing feather of that preposterous, but still un-removed hat, Robin crooned soft obscenities as he was split asunder.

The _little death_ overcame him despite his valiant efforts to hold off a while. The man had his stay-clipped hips grasped tightly, thus obtaining due purchase for the killing-thrusts; and Robin’s thighs were splayed so wide as to risk dislocation with each deliciously-agonised spasm.

The Ethiop’s determined regularity broke suddenly into a series of a-rhythmic jabs; and Robin heard him gasp out several crude endearments as he gave up his _All_ , deep within.

Both men were struck speechless (though not voiceless) for some minutes; then Jamaica Mary found some words.

“Gie me y’r arse unadorned with furbelows, an ye seek me out again, whore!”

“As you desire, sweetling,” said Robin doucely; whilst busy putting his toilette to rights, “But the hat remains!”

“The over-mantel may be adorned as you please, an the fire remain hot for the poking!”

Robin broke-through his female persona with a delighted roar of very masculine laughter.

“You turn a well-used trope to some freshness! The morrow's eve, then; at Vauxhall Gardens. What say you to a supper-box in some secluded, leafy spot? Enquire for _The Countess, naturellement_! Word is that Mr Handel’s new work will receive its final rehearsal at 9 o’ the clock. You’ll come? _Très bien_! You’ll be needing a shilling to purchase your ticket. Also – maybe some new clothes?”

The dainty purse that was tossed lightly onto the crumpled bedclothes contained – judging by the satisfying clink that it made – considerably in excess of one shilling.


	4. Intrigues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A number of plots are hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit of verse quoted by Samuel Drybutter is from _Would you have a young virgin of 15 years_ written by Thomas D'Urfey around 1709 and set to a dance-tune from Playford.

Dan hefted the purse, and made a few pleasurable calculations as he lingered above-stairs to give _The Countess_ due time to descend; and possibly also to get entirely clear of Miss Sukie’s. He felt he owed _her_ that much courtesy.

Had Bow Street not been involved in his life, Dan would have made play for _The Countess_ for all that _she_ was worth. _She_ was clearly a toff, roughing-it amongst the predominantly low-middle, and servant-classes who frequented the molly-houses. Dan had a hazy impression that _she_ had even arrived trailing a retainer!

However, Dan possessed that one shining nugget of privileged information! The seductive _Countess_ was also Kate Merriot; who had fled incontinently following her brother’s arrest (and subsequent scandalous escape) for the murder of one, Gregory Markham. 

With a delicious _frisson_ , Dan realised that My Lady Lowestoft might well be deeply implicated in these nefarious doings. Furthermore, he himself was the sole possessor of all these disparate facts that might, or might not, weave together to make an indictment that would please both Saunders Welch and the Magistrate - the brutal, devout, enigmatic John Fielding.

The final link – which might connect Kate, _The Countess_ and the attainted Jacobite Robin Lacey - was still missing. Dan would seek it out; but in the meantime, he fully intended to keep his own counsel with Bow Street, until he had enjoyed every minute of his private investigations!

* * * *

John arose the next morning, still prey to agonised indecision. His instinct for danger, though hardly as keen-edged as that of the Old Gentleman, was nonetheless roused by this latest mad start of Master Robin’s.

Try as he might, he had been unable to catch a glimpse of the Young Master’s latest _inamorato_. Robin had reappeared alone, in the same deplorable state as usual, following one of these enterprises; and resisted all attempts on John’s part to learn more.

“Suffice it to say, my John, that your suggestion was a _succès fou_! I’m really most obliged to you! If all Molly Houses be as enthralling as this one, I shall essay more of them!” had announced Master Robin on their return to the Barham Town House the following morning.

Under other circumstances, John might have let things be, at least until after the lying-in of Mistress Letty, away at Barham Court. His own personal heartache was, in the nature of things, regarded as being of too commonplace a nature to warrant any especial attention. 

However, Miss Sukie’s kindly intervention remained on his mind; and around mid-morning (having ascertained that Master Robin was still fast asleep), he sent a diffident message to the Old Gentleman that he would be glad of a word, at His Lordship’s convenience.

The exigencies of his _toilette_ keeping My Lord above-stairs until nigh-on noon, John was consequently left to kick his heels (and work himself into a frenzy of anxiety) below-stairs. His summons to the Library nonetheless caught him unawares; and he arrived in a fluster of tardiness, barely remembering to await a response to his peremptory knock.

“Our John is _un peu distrait_!” announced his Master’s voice, as he near-stumbled over the threshold, “What can have discomposed him? Surely not the _affaire du Jeune Maitre_ , so careful as he has been to accommodate the precious creature?”

“Begging your pardon, Milord,” said John, ignoring all the fancy-talk, “But I’m mortal worried about Master Robin!”

“ _D’accord_!” sighed the Viscount, “Pour me a glass of canary, take one for yourself, be seated and tell me all about it!”

With a familiar (and almost welcome) sense of being under his Master’s thumb, John complied; and proceeded to unburden himself of the whole sequence of adventures.

“Hmmmmm!” the Old Gentleman’s gaze became opaque, and he sipped his wine in silence for a while.

“But you don’t drink, my John! Is there aught amiss with the canary?” he asked suddenly.

John, who had begun to lapse into sleep-deprived meditation, started guiltily.

“No, of course not, Your Lordship! It’s just … I’m worried, Milord! This last start of Master Robin’s …. And I’ll not deny that I’d hoped All That would stop, now there’s Mistress Letty to consider! But … when I found him in the kitchen-garden on the eve of his wedding, all got-up like a lightskirt, I couldn’t think of no better solution than the Molly Houses! And then … Bow Street, sir! It’s this latest start of My Lord Newcastle’s! It’s not like The Watch at all, sir. Magistrate Fielding’s a clever man! Clever enow to think of matters other than Molly Houses and mere Mohocks! Perhaps even so far back as one, Robin Lacey …..”

“Enough!” the Old Gentleman’s tone was suddenly incisive, and far from the indolence he habitually affected, “I’ll speak to my friend March; and discover if there’s aught of .. interest afoot anent the late Rebellion. In the meantime – _Jamaica Mary_! We should learn more of him! Do you return to Saffron Hill, my John; and attempt a breach on Miss Sukie’s ready defences!”

John sighed. So now he must needs play the whore to serve Tremaine!

* * * *  
John was greeted by a delighted squeal, as Drybutter leapt to close and lock the outer door to his bookshop.

“Missie Maggie! Never did I think ye’d accept my so bold invitation! Please – be seated for a while. Jamaica Mary’s still above stairs, but will be down and away soon enow!”

“I’d greatly desire a glimpse of her without being seen!” blurted John eagerly.

Drybutter wilted a little, regarding him sadly.

“Alack! So ‘tis not mine own spreading charms alone that drew ye here. Well – “ he sighed, “’Tis a world of barter and commerce, after all! Therefore, my proposition is thus – an your visit be undertaken at least SOMEWHAT for my delight, I dare swear I might show ye a way to the Ethiop’s _Achilles Heel_ , so to speak! Any man who feels the need to clear so delectable an object from his Path must needs remember that Jamaica Mary’s free on license only! Seek her Document of Manumission, called by the Common Herd her _Writings_ , amongst her papers, Missie Maggie. An she not produce it when required … egad, there’s many's a runaway slave hidden in London; and many’s a bounty on offer, to ship such back to the Plantations! Hssh – here comes the Ethiop! Stand you in the shadows, here by the Treatises on Roman Law. There’s ne’er a soul will disturb ye, Missie Maggie, I’ll swear!”

John melted into the shadows what time a heavy step was heard on the upper stairway.

“Good morrow!” Drybutter greeted, a slight edge to his voice, “Give you joy of a fine day! And what, I wonder, brings you out at so early an hour?”

“That’s no one’s business but mine own!” replied the Ethiop, adding however, “I needs must repair my wardrobe a little!”

“Ah! So – an assignation, perhaps?”

“I’ll be absent this evening, if that’s what y’re angling to find out! I hear Mr Handel has a new work in rehearsal at Vauxhall; and intend to hear it!”

“Beware those dark promenade-ways, Jamaica Mary! T'is said things go on there that would shock even Princess Serafina!”

“I’m of a phlegmatic temperament, and possess a love of music! Why is the outer door locked, Miss Sukie? An assignation of your own, is it?”

“Use the side door!” replied Drybutter, flustered, “And enjoy your purchases!”

John sidled out as the side-door slammed behind Jamaica Mary, creating a small gale. He was frowning direfully; and Drybutter jumped back in feigned terror.

“Miss Maggie! What ails ye?”

“Naught, naught!” muttered John inattentively.

His frown was more in concentration than anger now.

“Miss Sukie!” he said finally, “May I beg one final favour; which - once granted and done - will ensure all my time and attention?”

Drybutter made a moue.

“Y’re sailing very close to the wind, Missie Maggie. I trust the game will be well worth the candle! What’s y’re desire?”

“To visit Jamaica Mary’s room alone for a short space.”

“Is that all? Easily granted! I trust you will recall – _Show her some hour you’re able to grapple; then get but her Writings, and All’s your own_ ”

John stared for a moment, and then smiled grimly.

“Indeed! Well sung and remembered! Lead on, Miss Sukie; and we both may be shortly rid of an irritant!"


	5. Preparations are made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin prepares for dalliance, whilst The Old Gentleman makes more sinister plans.

Robin paid-off the jarvey and watched as the hackney diminished away down the narrow street. The man had helped unload all the bandboxes, his thoughts clear on his conniving face. Clearly he had assumed Robin was about to set up a lightskirt in keeping. The truth was far otherwise.

It had been necessary to give John the slip today. Robin’s Vauxhall assignation had been a spur-of-the-moment decision; and he felt an odd reluctance to involve his devoted henchman any further. He had an odd, uneasy qualm concerning John’s reaction to his latest start.

Several trips proved necessary to transfer the boxes from the filthy street to the small apartment. All his new acquisitions were there; this was to be _The Countess_ ’s Domain entirely!

The task of unpacking and storing the clothes engrossed him for several pleasurable hours; and a minute choice of his proposed _toilette_ accounted for a considerably longer time than he had anticipated. He discovered that he had left himself a scant two hours to array himself in his chosen garments before taking a chair, and then sculls across the river from Westminster Pier to the delights of Vauxhall Gardens. 

It was a fine spring evening, and Robin expended a precious moment savouring the new foliage as something green and fresh, as well as a useful screen for activities of a clandestine nature. Perhaps his new _bel ami_ might be induced to essay a bout _au naturel_ later in the evening!

Resolutely eschewing the many delights and distractions of the gardens, Robin hastened to ensure that he was firmly _en place_ , well before his target’s arrival.

He had chosen a particular supper box with some care; and paid a fortune in bribes to ensure that he secured it. It lay on the far side of the Orchestra Building, on the same level as the musicians and above the heads of the promenaders below. The inevitable din would thus cover any untoward sounds; and the elevation would shield its denizens from the attentions of any prying eyes.

Robin intimated to a compliant attendant that the cold collation and French champagne should now be placed in readiness, and sat back to await his beau.

* * * *  
John mutely proffered the folded parchment square. The Old Gentleman took it gingerly, unfolded it with extreme delicacy, and perused the contents.

“How very precipitate – and unwise – of _ma chère Thérèse_!” he murmured, “And you say you replaced this in the Ethiop’s leather scrip with …?”

“A scurrilous ballad by Master d’Urfey, sir! The Ethiop’ll sing to a different tune if challenged, now, to produce his _Writings_!”

The Old Gentleman laughed quietly.

“And I apprehend that I shall hardly need to enquire anent your next steps in this matter, eh my John? Possibly a disinterested enquiry as to the whereabouts of one, Black Casca, lately footman to My Lady Lowestoft, eh? (What on earth possessed the creature to change his name to Daniel Carne, I wonder?) Well, I dare swear you may find some _amis secrets_ , known to The Gentlemen; who deal in the recapture and return of such commodities to the Plantations, an you make enquiry, John. Ah, how thin is the line between Freedom and Despair … or, indeed, between Attainted Jacobite and Heir to a Viscounty, eh? So destroy that paper, as you love your Young Master!”

“Aye, sir!” said John.

“In the meantime,” pursued Milord, “T’were as well to produce some evidence of Robin Lacey’s untimely demise abroad …. In France _peut-être_? A courier to Gaston, methinks; and a word to my son-in-law, Sir Anthony! T’is an accredited Whig, with no apparent connexions to the Late Rebellion. Let us but drop a hint – the veriest whisper – of danger to Prue; and, Egad, he’ll be tripping over his large … sword … in his eagerness to validate our witness! Do you your part, my John, and leave me to tie the last loose ends of this sad affair!”

“Aye, sir!” said John again, and took a hasty, and much relieved, leave of His Lordship.


	6. Firework Music!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A musical encounter from Dan's pov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter is rated NC17.

Dan had made a large, and expensive, effort with his clothing this night. Consequently, the doorman took his proffered shilling and produced an entrance-ticket, with barely a supercilious sniff. When requested to direct him to _The Countess_ ’ box, however, the man became preternaturally formal and polite.

Assuming a domino-mask and an all-concealing hooded cloak in deepest midnight-blue silk, Dan made his way through the extravagantly-dressed multitudes towards the Orchestra. Sidestepping the boisterous ground-level boxes, he slipped quietly into an alcove that gave onto a flight of dark stairs to the floor above.

A line of mellow light showed beneath a door immediately before him; and Dan hastened to lay hand on the latch, lifting it softly, his arrival covered by the sounds of the musicians’ tuning somewhere very near at hand.

_The Countess_ was seated near the front, half-turned away from the door, gazing out into the dusk. One elbow rested on the velvet-covered rail, _her_ chin was cupped in one white hand, and _her_ profile was thrown into sharp relief against the evening sky beyond.

Tonight _she_ wore darkened tresses _en demi toilette_ , surmounted by a dainty netted cap sewn with tiny amethysts. More flashed at _her_ earlobes and around _her_ white throat. A foaming froth of gauze in subtly-shaded graduations – from pale ashes-of-violets to deepest indigo – covered _her_ from _her_ low _décolletage_ to _her_ feet, which peeped from beneath the hem clad in buckled shoon, all set likewise with the tiny purple stones. The stars, twinkling into existence as the mauve sunset faded beyond the trees outside, were no brighter than _her_ one visible eye.

Dan was able to control neither his wayward breathing, nor the rapid thump of the double-tympanum in his chest. _She_ was purely Perfection; a divine Masque of aristocratic femininity, concealing both an outrageous wildcat, and that slyly incongruous maleness. And beneath that again – the thrilling possibility of traitorous intrigue!

Lady Lowestoft must surely have been privy to the secret! A barbed thought caught Dan unawares; and for one transient instant he was in the grip of such fury as would ignite the whole of this flimsy structure – boxes, orchestra, musicians with their tuneful scraping and all! What if she .. and …? No! _The Countess_ would surely have held off from such an indiscreet course of action!

He must have made some sound. In an amethystine flash of facetted scintillants, _The Countess_ turned _her_ jewelled head and lithe upper body.

“Give you good evening, _Countess_!” Dan’s reflexes were quick enough to counterfeit a _sang froid_ he was very far from feeling.

“La, sir; how you startled me!” a deep-hued fan of curled feathers came into play, above which a pair of laughing eyes gave the lie to the words, “Is’t your habit always to creep upon your lovers so?”

“Upon my doxies it is!” replied Dan, his concealed anger barbing his words.

“Fie, sir! Here’s a heat beneath so cool a blue exterior! Essay a wing of chicken and a glass of cold champagne; then ecod – I shall look to see your fires quenched and steam a-trickle from both your ears!”

“My fires quenched, you say? Oh no, _Milady_ , t’would be but poor service I could offer an that were so!” _riposted_ Dan, recovering equanimity and entering into the verbal gaming of which his _bel ami_ was so fond.

_The Countess_ had arisen and was pouring sparkling liquid into tall glasses. Turning, _she_ handed him one of these _en passant_ and, in the same fluid, upward movement, contrived to throw the hood back from his head and tug gently at the mask-strings. Before he had even raised the glass to his lips therefore, Dan was uncovered; his hot face exposed to the dusky spring air.

White arms twined around his neck, and Dan found himself grappling _her_ close with his free arm. _She_ raised _her_ painted visage, mutely inviting; and Dan – who generally scorned the softer arts of love – discovered an unexpected response deep within as he devoured the henna’ed flower of _her_ bewitching mouth.

Pressed thus closely, Dan became aware that there were significant differences in the cut and flow of _her_ clothing. He was sensible of the curve of neat, mistily-outlined buttocks beneath his palm; of pale, muscled shoulders and chest upon which his teeth might raise delectable bruising; of _her_ state of straining arousal, outlined in ruffled silk against his thigh.

_She_ had been as good as _her_ word; and traversed the Thames _en dishabille_ entirely for his benefit.

He realised a little tardily that, whilst his right hand was cupped around _her_ perfect arse, his left was still clutching a dangerously-full and wobbling glass. He tore free to dispose of the thin, fizzy liquid in one gulp; subsequently ridding himself of the empty glass by the simple expedient of tossing it over the front of the box into the night. The tinkling crash of its demise sounded faintly through the increasing jangle of tuned instruments nearby.

“Oh Noble Savage!” breathed _The Countess_ , “How swiftly you discard the accoutrements of Civilisation! Let us, then, throw off the outer trappings of _bon ton_ , and meet only as Nature intended!” _she_ paused to draw a satirical breath, then added prosaically, “There’s a couch behind me, in the shadowiest corner, where naught will intrude! What say you to that, Jamaica Mary?”

Dan, still holding _her_ implacably to his bosom, caught _her_ back hair with his free hand, jerked _her_ face rudely upwards, and bit down hard on _her_ full lower lip. He waited until the rusty tang of blood reached his palate before replying.

“I say – remove all these furbelows, _she-fuckster_ ; and recline exposed on y’re hired couch; so I might savour in full what ye have on offer!”

“You lack _un peu de finesse_ , my Noble Ethiop! But – since ye make y’re demand with such manifest sincerity ……”

_She_ slid through his hands like running water, or sheer silk; gliding sinuously to the couch. _Her_ hands moved swifter than the eye could follow; and the concealing morning-gown slid to _her_ feet, pooling around her ankles.

_She_ now wore only the netted cap; severely-laced, indigo-trimmed stays that nipped-in _her_ already-slender waist; violet-clocked stockings cross-laced above the knee with purple velvet; and the high-heeled, amethyst-buckled shoon. _Her_ darkened hair flowed in a torrent of wild curls from beneath the cap to caress _her_ shoulders. _Her_ azure eyes and half-parted lips made reckless, and illicit, promises.

As if in response, a distant spatter of applause was wafted from below. _She_ acknowledged it with a brief, wicked pose when Dan joined in, blowing a gossamer kiss outwards to the patch of sky. As the orchestra commenced pulling its random twiddles together preparatory to the performance, _she_ affected a dramatic backwards-trip; landing squarely on the couch, arms splayed wide in invitation; and legs a-sprawl.

Dan could hardly wait for the orchestra’s crashing encouragement, as it began Herr Handel’s new piece. Working swiftly in despite of his trembling fingers, he shed coat, waistcoat, shirt, breeches, small clothes and the modish new three-tailed wig. He had never been so desperate for anyone in his life; and found that Need had rendered his erect cock almost painful. He fervently trusted, as he dived between _The Countess_ ’ legs, parting _her_ thighs savagely with twisting shoulders and torso, that _she_ had made her customary preparations!

He was bollock-deep into _her_ , before he became sensible of the fact that, rather than fucking like gutter-dogs in the accustomed manner, they were face-to-face.

_Her_ silk-clad legs pointed ceilingwards over his shoulders, and _her_ incongruously-sinewy arms grappled his neck, pulling him down to that predatory mouth. _Her_ lips encompassed his tongue, sucking it greedily inside. He had the odd notion that he was being similarly engulfed below.

Forgetting any semblance of _finesse_ , and the fact that _she_ might be induced to part with further golden guineas if treated with due care, Dan followed the dictates of his suffused cock and aching balls. A scant few lunges were enough to bring him off with no thought of a polite holding-back for his _Lady_ ’s benefit.

The Deed was thus accomplished between the opening fanfare of Herr Handel’s new work, and the end of the _ouverture_ ; the frequent drumrolls covering and counterpointing his hoarse cries.

He came to himself to discover that _she_ had matched him, stroke for stroke; so that his belly and chest were splattered with the hot lava of _her_ emission.


	7. The Suite Concludes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fireworks Suite concludes in triumph. Robin's pov.   
> However the evening ends disquietingly for Dan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **WARNING** : This chapter is rated NC17.

Robin was becoming more and more intrigued by this new man of his.

What, for example, had caused that upsurge of anger, even before Robin had employed his sharp tongue and customary inflammatory tactics to provoke it?

The Ethiop could be satisfactorily brusque (a trait which _The Countess_ prized highly in her paramours), but possessed also the saving grace of a ready sense of humour. Withal, his company-manners were impeccable; and Robin silently thanked whatever Master had trained him in the niceties of civilised dalliance; whilst leaving his fucking adorably primitive.

He had just exhibited a commendable lack of consideration of his partner’s needs during that last bout. Robin was half-hopeful of a violent reaction to the wanton splatter of _nocturnal emission_ that he himself had achieved whilst the Ethiop attended to his own relief.

“Oh, are ye with me already?” he had enquired with languorous satisfaction; and proceeded to mop up with liberal exactitude with a snowy napkin grabbed from the table.

Robin laughed up into the fathomless darkness at the centre of those brown eyes.

“I’m renowned for the swiftness of my reflexes, sweet blackamoor!” he replied lazily.

By way of response, a hand like a highland targe had splayed itself lightly across his throat; and then slowly become heavier until it threatened to choke him. The constriction sent a swift jolt down his spine, and caused his spent cock to jerk into a painful quasi-life.

Above the rapid drumming in his ears, Robin could hear the counter-beat of the orchestra; above which the Ethiop’s velvet tones responded in a warm, deep, harmonious rumble.

“An ye come to know me well, _Lady-fuckster_ , y’ll find that I accept some Namings with equanimity. _Ethiop_ is a title I countenance; _blackamoor_ is not! You perceive the fine distinction?”

Robin, half suffocated and panting, found himself ready for another bout.

“Oh yes!” he croaked, “Now let me up!”

Surprised, the Ethiop complied; thus saving Robin the necessity of an undignified tussle. He wriggled out from under the lax body and, seizing his discarded gown, threw it back on.

Two steps took him to the rail; and he bent backwards over it, outwards into the night. His right hand hiked the gown upwards above his midriff, to reveal his triumphantly resurrected member.

“Deal with this for me, pretty man, whilst I stand here to enjoy the night air, the verdant view and the music. Thuswise may ALL my sense be filled and made replete!” he whispered.

“Bitch! Y’re on heat again already!” 

Jamaica Mary whistled in astonishment, his eyes alight with slightly insulting admiration.

“Turn outwards then, and face y’re public!” he suggested.

Robin complied, leaning forward to rest his elbows negligently on the velvet rail, and waving insouciantly at an imaginary acquaintance below.

He had expected an assault from the rear. The Ethiop, however, did nothing of the kind. Instead, he poured a tiny amount of the arrack punch renowned amongst Vauxhall’s guests, into a cordial glass. Picking it up delicately by its air-twist stem, he took a careful step towards Robin, stopping some paces from the rail, and handing him the drink.

Robin quirked a querying eyebrow; and the Ethiop gifted him a wide, satirical smile.

“ _‘Thuswise may ALL my sense be filled and made replete!’_ “ he quoted, “But, alas, for what I have in mind, ye’d lack only Taste! Therefore – the cordial! And now ….”

Sliding lithely into the scant space between Robin and the box-front, Jamaica Mary knelt, seized the hems of the morning gown, and bundled it up unceremoniously, reaching to tie it roughly back at Robin’s waist.

“Spread, _Lady_ , and create a perfect setting for my _pièce de résistance_!” commanded the blackamoor, his voice trembling on a throb, or (possibly) on uncontrollable laughter.

Robin moved compliantly, widening his stance almost to the point of discomfort. The Ethiop shuffled to make himself comfortable within the little cave bounded by Robin’s straddle, and the curtained ruffles of the gown that hung – somewhat askew – behind. 

“Since I am still bollock-naked, _sweet Lady_ , t’were as well I skulk here!” said he, combining laugh and purr to fascinating effect, “And now – do you acknowledge in your own wanton fashion, the Masses from above, whilst I labour here below for your delectation!” he ran a tantalising tongue-tip the length of Robin’s shaft, before adding with incongruous prosaicness – “And please not to forget the arrack!”

Robin’s witty _riposte_ was stopped up and strangled in his throat, as the Ethiop leaned forward and swallowed him whole. His cock was taken down – beyond teeth, palate, throat and all; whilst the sly tongue stroked and fluttered at the underside.

The hands gripping his hips slid forward to cup his buttocks. Thumbs parted his arse-cheeks. One hand insinuated itself; oiled and rigid fingers probing deep within; whilst the other slid back to one hip; holding him immoveable as he was penetrated behind; and drawn, palpitating towards screaming completion before.

There could be no escape. Robin, poised teetering on the brink of Absolute Dissolution, yet retained the necessary modicum of _nous_ to raise the glass to his lips and down the careful measure of arrack at the precise instant that his weak defences buckled and gave way to the double-assault below. Fire met with fire somewhere around his midriff.

Fortuitously, his dying scream coincided exactly with an orchestral crescendo; the climactic clash of cymbals and a bell-deep roll on the drums. Herr Handel would never know how apposite his music could be, under the correct circumstances!

* * * *

Dan, replete with shaven ham, cold chicken salad, French champagne, arrack and the after-effects of several heavy bouts of love, took a solitary boat from Vauxhall to Westminster Pier.

His purse bulged with golden guineas, his cock hung slack and satiated, and his head spun in sleepy rhythm with the Celestial Spheres. Seldom had he been so contented in his life.

Alighting at Westminster, Dan took his way on foot along Thames River towards Charing Cross, then up the Strand, towards Fleet Street, Fetter Lane and, eventually, Saffron Hill. It would be a long road, and yet he strode it like a Colossus.

Tomorrow he would gather all the gold, and quit Miss Sukie’s. In a few days, he would meet the _Countess_ again as arranged, to hear Herr Handel’s completed work at Green Park. He would avoid the sinister web of underhand information that Bow Street was so busily weaving.

Robin Lacey or no; he would not again be party to a bed-partner of his, swinging out the strangling hours on Tyburn tree. Let the Fieldings go hang instead! Fired with this resolve, he swung past the dark cavern of Fountain Court, halfway up the Strand.

The blow fell, seemingly from a clear, star-furred sky. Dan grunted, went down heavily on damp cobblestones; and knew no more.


	8. Missing ........

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A search for a missing person brings Robin face-to-face with the Bow Street magistracy.

Robin let himself into Barham House via the area entrance. Only his hair, somewhat untidily confined at his nape, damp tendrils clinging to his throat, and even encroaching onto his chin, bespoke an evening spent in pleasures unknown to _The Ton_.

At the apartment in Charing Cross, he had completed, with due expedition, his transformation; shedding with the stained gown, crushed garters and all the jewellery, the _persona_ of _The Countess_.

Now, he must call on John to help him re-constitute his fair hair; and begin to look forward to his next meeting with the Ethiop at Green Park in a scant few days’ time.

Gaining his chamber undetected, he made haste to ring the bell.

When after the passage of some fifteen minutes, John had failed to make an appearance, Robin made a bold foray into the servants’ quarters to seek out his faithful henchman.

John’s neat, bare chamber was dark; although the door had yielded to Robin’s precipitate entrance. Lifting his candle aloft, Robin peered around for some evidence of John’s whereabouts.

The place was empty. Only a thin draught moved within the chamber, streaming Robin’s candle-flame sideways into a thread of trailing smoke; and causing a parchment, left incongruously on the narrow bed, to flutter audibly, like the wing-beats of a caged wren. Idly Robin leaned to retrieve it, intending to replace it in a safer place. It fell open as he lifted it.

The first thing that caught his eye was a known-name – _Thérèse de Brûton, Lady Lowestoft_. Slowly the purport of the document penetrated his understanding.

It was a certificate of Manumission for one, Black Casca, alias Daniel Carne, sometime property of the late Sir Thomas Lowestoft, and of his widow. It had been counter-signed by the High Constable of Holborn (name illegible), with an appended note to the effect that Mr Carne had lately been employed by the Bow Street Magistracy, until a date approximately three months ago. Beneath that, someone had added in an ill-written scrawl the single word – _Irregular_.

Robin’s fair brows contracted suddenly. Holding the document between thumb and forefinger, he retreated, still undetected, to his own chamber.

* * * *

The Bow Street Magistracy was accustomed to receiving callers of many sorts and conditions, at the oddest and most inconvenient times.

For this reason, Saunders Welch had set up his base at The Shakespeare Head of an evening, and could be found there any time once dusk had fallen. Once this fact had become known amongst his many contacts, the number of nocturnal visitors to the Fieldings’ own house had diminished somewhat. No one could stop the toffs if they chose to beard the Magistrates at home, of course; but the more mundane traffic could easily be passed through the accommodating doors of ‘The Shakes’.

Tonight, he had dispatched a number of Runners to deal with the usual range of wrongdoing; and was about to call for a parting measure of ale before repairing to the Magistrates to make his final report, when there came a stir about the door. A familiar tapping sound was heard, and the crowd of drinkers and whores parted hastily, to make way for the Blind Beak.

Welch hurried to his feet, calling a clear greeting to give John Fielding the direction. It was only then that he noticed the smaller man trailing in the Magistrate’s wake.

“Give you good evening, Mr Welch!” the Blind Beak made his unerring way to Welch’s table, sliding easily onto the chair that had been hastily produced, “I have with me Mr Tremaine, who is making an enquiry anent a possible missing person!”

“Oh, yes?” replied Welch, feigning an interest that he was far from feeling, and wondering how, in a city of almost six hundred thousand souls, the limited resources of Bow Street were supposed to stretch to tracing the whereabouts of just one person.

“Yes!” proclaimed the Magistrate, “One Daniel Carne! Milord – that is - Mr Tremaine, has conceived the notion that some ill may have befallen him!”

Welch came to attention suddenly.

“What’s this?” he demanded in some dismay.

“Show Master Welch the Writings, Mr Tremaine!”

The slight boy handed him a crumpled parchment, and slid neatly onto the bench beside him.

Welch unfolded the document and ran his eye down it. He recognised his own signature immediately, and knew exactly what he was holding before carefully reading the rest.

“How came you by this?” he enquired – buying time whilst he digested the implications.

This must be Mr Carne’s suspect; but the Ethiop himself might by now be long gone!

“Regrettably, I found it … “ the young sprig paused until Welch, cogitations completed, raised his eyes enquiringly, “Ah, yes … I found it in my servant’s quarters. I have a fear that, since I have recently shown some small marks of favour to Jamaica M – beg pardon – Mr Carne, my John has become jealous and done something … irreparable! T’would ill become me an J … Mr Carne suffer by his dealings with me!”

Welch was thinking furiously, and regretting that he was unable to exchange covert, significant glances with the Blind Beak. Left thus to his own wits in this reply, he cleared his throat portentously; and decided that a direct (or, in this case, semi-direct) approach would be best.

“Ye met Carne in Saffron Hill, I take it?”

The gentleman’s eyes dropped in modest confusion.

“As you say!” the admission was barely above a whisper.

“And … t’is jealousy, ye think, that led y’re servant to – acquire – the Writings? Ye’ll be aware, no doubt, that Samuel Drybutter will doubtless be involved in these nefarious doings?”

“Alas, yes! I greatly fear that my John has – to employ common parlance – carried a torch for me over many years. I should, have spoken long since …..” the words trailed unhappily into silence.

The Magistrate chose this moment to intervene.

“Mr Tremaine!” he rapped out crisply, “Let us – for the moment – set Motive aside in favour of ascertaining what has befallen Mr Carne! Y’re aware no doubt that – an he be apprehended without his Writings – he lies open to capture by bounty hunters; who might then return him to his erstwhile owner; or … “ there was no-one like John Fielding to make a pause ominous, “ .. ship him out from these liberal shores on an anonymous slaver; and thus – an he survive the voyage – to the slave-block and servitude in the Plantations! Now ….. “

The toff, paling in the uncertain light, sprang to his feet.

“No!” he protested, “I can’t allow …. “

“Gently, Mr Tremine! An t’were high-tide on a sailing-night at the time of his capture, there’s naught we can do. When did you find this?”

“Four nights ago! But … “ the boy faltered suddenly, “I waited until Mr Carne failed to keep his appointment with me tonight!” turning in the blink of an eye into an imperious termagent, he announced – “If he left these shores, he must be returned, I say!”

“And I say, Mr Tremaine, that the remedy – if remedy there be – lies entirely in y’r own hands! We need a location, Mr Tremaine! Some filthy hole near the quays, I would expect; perchance near the Prospect of Whitby, or down at Deptford Creek. There’ll of a surety be a holding-pen somewhere ready to fill the hold of a slaver! Do ye enquire diligently of y’r servant, in whatever way ye choose; and WHEN ye return with that location, Mr Tremaine, THEN we will act. An Y’r … friend … be there, he’ll be freed upon the instant; ye have my word!”

“So I should hope!” snapped the toff, now every inch The Gentleman, “Since I apprehend from his Writings, that he’s one of y’r own!”

The Blind Beak scarcely paused.

“Oh, hardly that, Mr Tremaine! Hardly OFFICIALLY that; eh, Master Welch?”

Welch nodded.

“E’en so," he admitted reluctantly, “I’d not wish to see him constrained under … those conditions, Mr Fielding!”

The Magistrate sighed.

“I gave him his chance to renounce his sinful ways; and as ye know, he failed. Nonetheless, Master Welch, I am of your mind in this! The Plantations – egad – t’would burn-out that fine, logical mind! And, life has hard-taught me that waste is a greater sin e’en than Sodomy! Do you find the place, Mr Tremaine; and Bow Street will render every assistance! But be swift! As ye – ahem - value the Ethiop, be swift! Ye’ll find me at the house later tonight and on the morrow early!”

“I will! Later tonight, ye say? Look to see me – and my John – as soon as may be!”

On this resolute line, the toff upped and left.

Welch allowed his lips a cynical twist before he turned courteously to assist the Blind Beak out of his seat and into the street.


	9. The Search Commences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a somewhat candid interview, various parties foregather to find Dan.

John answered the imperative summons of Master Robin’s bell with a light heart. The blackamoor had been effectively eliminated from the collective lives of the Tremaines, according to My Lord’s instructions. The matter of the Missing Writings could now be consigned to a comprehensive perdition.

There had indeed been unparalleled satisfaction in being the specific assailant to bring Jamaica Mary down.

The situation had even improved upon Perfection when the recovering blackamoor had attempted to produce his Writings as proof of status. The scurrilous ballad with which John had replaced the real Manumission had been a source of much hilarity amongst the worthies with whom he was linked in this enterprise.

They had divided the blackamoor’s quite sumptuous effects amongst themselves. Stripped and manacled, reduced to mere plantation-fodder, he’d been fair-game for a while.

But the bravos had – all too soon for John’s taste – become bored, and kicked the slave back into the stinking holding-pit to await shipment. John had paid them their finders-fee (courtesy of Milord Barham), and taken his contented road home.

There, he had encountered a minor shock. The Writings, which he had pledged to destroy, were missing from his room. After due consideration, however, he shrugged this aside. Mayhap the Old Gentleman had been prowling – egad, t’was always his way – and decided to end matters thus, in person. Sure, that would be the way of it!

Now, several days later, entering Master Robin’s chamber, he found his young gentleman in the act of pulling on his top-boots unaided; and hastened to assist.

“Ye’re bound out again, sir?” he ventured, a trifle perplexed.

“Indeed; and you will accompany me! The game, as they say, is afoot!”

“Erm … y’r hair, Master Robin! Perhaps a rinse with lemon before we go? T’is a trifle darker than … “

“No time!” returned Robin crisply, “Tie it back in a plain riband, my John! And … " John paused in his sensuous drawing-down of the brush, “ … whilst ye do that, ye might perchance explain to me – This!”

The brush, incautiously wielded, snarled in Robin’s hair; but the young master hardly even heeded the vicious tug. The calm blue eyes, beautiful and hard as sapphire, met his through the table-mirror.

“Well?” asked Robin softly, the Manumission held up for inspection in his firm, light swordsman’s grasp.

“How came ye by that?” blurted John; though he knew well enough.

“Is it yourself, John; my trusty, ready henchman, who would send a man to the hell of the Plantations without a second thought?” drawled the soft voice John had always loved, “T’would seem I never knew ye, all this time!”

* * * *

“Well, this grows interesting!” observed the Magistrate, as he and Welch made their way back to Bow Street.

Welch noted from afar, several _habitués_ of The Fountain watching them from the entrance to the shadowy court in which it was situated. It seemed the Bow Street Magistrates and their Runners were become known and recognised amongst the criminal fraternities that haunted the dark places in this City.

“Yessir!” he replied, “When think ye Carne was taken?”

“The gentleman last saw him on Friday!” replied Fielding thoughtfully, “And I would guess he found the Writings that same night. In which case ……”

“What? Why – that’s the greater part of a week gone by!”

“Indeed. The Gentleman thus waited to ascertain whether Mr Carne would keep tryst tonight. A stupid mistake; and one which I fear has doomed his lover (to give the word with no bark upon it) to the Plantations!”

“And Tremaine himself? Robin Lacey, perchance?”

“Ah! We shall now never know, my friend, for – only this forenoon – word was sent from His Highness the Duke. It seems that new intelligence has come to light which reveals – of a near-certainty according to the message – that Robin Lacey perished in France following a daring escape thence from Scotland. Thus has the Duke – through us – wasted the time, talents, and possibly the life of a decent, if sinful, man! Master Constable, I confess that I am at one with our young firebrand in desiring Mr Carne’s return to his … ah … nearest and dearest!”

“I’ve been thinking, sir,” said Welch slowly, “That there be Sin; and then there be Criminality. Some might say that the two are one; but t’is not always so! An Mr Carne – Daniel – choose to swive a Lady-born, or indeed, sundry whores; then there would be naught to disturb Bow Street by the sin. So why is the sin of swiving a man ALSO a crime; whereas the sin of swiving a whore not? It seems to me ….. “ the Constable’s brow wrinkled as he attempted painfully to enunciate this unaccustomed thought-process, “That the law is not – in this instance – Just!”

The Blind Beak sighed.

“Sin be sin, Mr Welch! But – y’re right as to the Law! Mr Pentlow – an avowed family man – may secretly grope at one of Mr Harris’ whores; and none to complain! But – sithee – the mollies be open to extortion and the rigours of the pillory. Furthermore, the crime that ended Mr Carne’s career as a Runner was that he placed his murderous lover before the exigencies of the Bow Street Magistracy! Also, sad to say, he seems to have done the same in this instance! Not one word to us anent Mr Robin Tremaine since ye set him on this case! I can never receive him into the forgiving arms of Bow Street; but natheless, I would not see him shipped Plantationwards!”

“Ye see these things so much plainer than I am able!” said Welch, a trifle sourly.

“Give y’rself time, Mr Welch, give it time!”


	10. Two Distasteful Scenes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Diabolical rage; Despair; Discovery; and Derring-do.

Robin’s inchoate anger – at Jamaica Mary’s undesirable connexions; at the man’s absence this evening; at John’s involvement; and at the fear that the Old Gentleman stood behind All – crystallised into a cold, diamond-hard rage.

He had begun by considering leaving Jamaica Mary - Casca – Daniel – to his fate. However, he inconveniently recalled a camp-fire conversation deep in the highland hills one dank evening, as rain hissed in dead heather stalks; and rutting stags belled on the lower slopes.

_"Egad, sire, there’ll be nae English jail will hold me! Gin the boat come, I’ll be in Virginia ere e’en The Butcher gets wind o’ me! I’ll gar many’s the fine buck nigger’s hurdies tae smart tae the tune o’ “Bonnie Chaerlie” gin I make Overseer; and a’ the fine lairds o’ London tae thank me for’t …."_

No! The Countess would not allow such a fate to befall her pretty man; be he a Bow Street whore or no! Robin turned his attention (and his honed fury) to John’s actions.

His henchman’s dismay at the revealed Manumission goaded Robin further; and it took but small inducement to encourage the whole story to come tumbling out.

To his horror, however, Robin perceived that the taradiddle with which he had regaled the Gentlemen of the Law, was indeed true. John, normally as doughty as bog-oak, was in helpless thrall to unrequited passion of which Robin was the object.

The revelation raised in Robin’s breast, not the softer feelings of sympathy and understanding, but rather, an ugly, desperate violence which, wielded unerringly, had soon produced the information that the Magistrate had so imperiously requested. He felt sick at himself, afterwards, for so using his servant; but needs must when Old Gentleman and Slavers combine!

Robin ordered the horses put-to on his light chaise; and, leaving John to drive as usual, was on his way back to Bow Street before ever the waites called midnight.

* * * *

Time had ceased to exist; and his sense of himself was fast draining away also.

Even the overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and their effluent had ceased to torment his dulled sense. Even the regular torture lacked form or meaning.

It worried him, in a distant, non-personalised way, that his movement was constantly impeded; either by the bands of raw fire around his neck and wrists, or by other bodies that roiled and grunted beside, around and sometimes over him, in the hellish darkness.

He had learned, however, to hide from the savage rapier-thrusts of light that presaged a feeding; just as he had learned not to join the suicidal combat of tooth and claw that followed. He was not close enough to the source; and had long decided that Someone would prefer him dead before ever he left this place. It would be his pleasure to oblige …..

The light caught him this … time? .. unawares! Not a slim shaft, as before; but a lightning-sheet of unbearable flame, burning his eyes. He could hear, dimly, the cries and protests from the Others.

Slowly he became aware of staccato sounds above the din; portentous with meaning.

“ … IDIOT, Pentlow! The light will disturb them…. Yes – even this slight moonlight! ..”

“ …. Give them one point of focus, Master Welch. Lantern, ho! … “

“….. Carne? Dan Carne? Are ye here?”

He turned quickly, shrouding ears as well as eyes, now. Someone would come … he would have to … to …

There was a stir in the shadows near the light-source; and then a familiar voice cut through the Babel-sounds around him.

“MISTER CARNE! Report to the Magistrate immediately!”

His body jerked as far upright as it was able; and … _“Here sir!”_ , he’d replied before his numb brain had even grasped the sense of it all.

“Right at the back, against the wall! Of course!” commented a lighter, and equally familiar voice resignedly.

“Ye’ll need to free-up the lot, sir! There’s a running-chain that tethers all their necks!”

“Here – " a clank of metal, “Do it! But haste ye, Pentlow; that fellow who fled will likely bring down the whole boiling of them upon us. We can but hope the reinforcement arrives in time …. "

“Not my fault, Mr Fielding sir! That damn servant of Tremaine’s …..”

His manacled wrists were seized and loosed. They fell suddenly into his lap, just as a shadow sprang up before him. He flinched back instinctively, warding for a blow…

“Gently, Dan! We’ll have ye free in no time! Ecod, but ye’re diminished! I might have slid these from y’r wrists without recourse to the key. Did they never feed ye, all this long week?”

A week? Was that all it had been ……?

“ … wanted me dead!” he managed, “ … leave me be …. a sinner …. Hell can be no worse! ..”

“RUBBISH, Dan! Ye’ll live to swive _The Countess_ many’s the time yet! Sin be damned (saving y’r presence, Magistrate!) T’is how Life deals the cards, my pretty man!”

“She-fuckster!” said Dan faintly.

The voice purred with laughter.

“He’ll do, Master Welch! Get him out – but mind his eyes in the moonlight!”

“What do we do with all these OTHERS, sir?” the Constable sounded nonplussed, and almost close to panic.

Dan stirred himself.

“They’ll fight an ye give ‘em back the manacles ye took off them!” he coughed, mouth and throat dry, “Little fellas .." he managed, “Let them run whilst they have a chance …”

“He’s right!” muttered Welch, and raised his voice – “Mr Fielding! Ho, sir; is there time for these children to escape?”

There was an answering rush of small figures to where the lights danced in the wind from Outside. Shadows slid and flickered around him like souls in Hell-flame. One of them paused and bent over him, and Dan flinched back once again.

“Easy now, matey! T’is only Old Pentlow! Gennleman says to get ye out before the ruckus gets goin’! ‘Ere ….”

Large hands grasped his shoulders and lifted him sufficiently for him to gain his own footing. A smothering blanket was wrapped over him, causing him to splutter.

“Where’s this from? The poxy lockup?”

“Right again, Dan! Ecod, t’is yerself who has the brains. This way!”

Pentlow steered him efficiently through the growing hubbub, and out into glaring moonlight beyond. Dan flipped a corner of the blanket over his head and eyes as they staggered over the cobbles of a malodorous alleyway to where a lightless chaise stood in the shadows, horses secured to a post. He boosted Dan up onto the passenger seat.

“ ‘Ere we go, matey! Gennleman says to lie low in here!” Pentlow cleared his throat nervously, “I’m to return for the Blind Beak and bring ‘im ‘ere too. Ye’ll be alright? There’s a cudgel on the seat beside ye!”

“I’ll make shift!” croaked Dan determinedly, “Is there water?”

“On the seat also!” 

Pentlow melted (quite successfully for so big a man) into the shadows.


	11. Melee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the slavers make their appearance and violence breaks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nimming Ned and Ben Budge are characters from _The Beggars' Opera_ and its lesser known sequel _Polly_. They were members of MacHeath's thieving gang. Diana Trapes, a minor character in _Opera_ takes a larger role in _Polly_ which deals with slavery in the Caribbean.

Distant shouts and trampling came closer, just as Big Pentlow bucketed back to collect the Blind Beak.

Welch swore; aware that he would be unable to get the two of them out before the attack began.

He himself would be needed here to marshal the thin defence; and he was also determined to keep that servant of Tremaine’s well under his eye, in case the bastard was tempted to lead the cutthroats direct to the hidden chaise.

Young Tremaine ranged up beside him, rapier drawn, and a hectic flush on his pale cheeks.

“Shall I escort the Magistrate out of here?” he enquired with a blinding smile, “Ecod, how I’ve missed the cut and thrust of Adventure, here in staid England!”

The Constable pursed his lips. This was a dangerous attitude to embrace whilst dealing with the slaver-gang!

“The odds’re bad, sir! I’d counsel …”

“Even better!” declared the young sprig buoyantly, “Ho – Master Pentlow! Will it be yourself and me to take Magistrate Fielding to safety? Y’re game? Then let’s get to it, before ever the gang descends!”

Welch rather hoped that Pentlow would demur, but he threw a _“Yessir!”_ over his shoulder as he settled the Blind Beak with one hand on his arm.

“Master Fielding! Y’re happy with this?” Welch tried.

“I have the utmost confidence in the weight of Pentlow’s fist and the skill in Mr Tremaine’s sword-arm!” replied the Blind Beak serenely.

Welch could only watch helplessly as they crept from the darkness of the lockup into the treacherous, silvery light, and pray that the Militia would arrive in time.

* * * *

Dan had drifted into a semi-delirious doze; which he thought was full consciousness until the growing hubbub awoke him fully. He still retained enough sense of self-preservation to grasp the end of the cudgel, and rise.

The noise had paused at the mouth of the alley. As Dan squinted through the chiaroscuro patterning, a bunch of the raucous crowd detached itself and swerved towards him.

This was it then!

Freed from the noisome dehumanisation of the slave-hold, his choice was to run, cowering in darkness until recaptured by one or other set of masters; or stand – and die a free man.

Dan tied the noisome blanket more firmly around his waist, descended from the chaise, and waited; aware now only of the pounding in his chest - so like, yet so absolutely unlike his tympanic encounter with _The Countess_ ……

“There it be, my cullies! The chaise!”

“Yeeaah!”

The leaping shadows took both form and cacophonic sound, as they rushed towards him. He gripped the cudgel like a talisman, preparing to raise it to strike ……

* * * *

“ ‘ere ye go, sirs! Chaise is up ahead. We won through!” huffed Big Pentlow.

“But not the first to't, so it seems!” breathed back Robin, “See – the shadows move there … and there! The stratagem is to block any escape at the alley’s mouth. T’would seem they’re ignorant of this winding lane behind ….. gently, now! We must dispose first of Master Fielding – saving your presence, sir!”

“Set me against the coach door, gentlemen, and I’ll warrant I give as good an account as you with your two eyes apiece!”

“Magistrate Fielding can tell each and every rogue by the singularity of his footfall, so t’is said!” announced Pentlow with pride.

“Bravo! You’ve a weapon, sir?”

“Aye! This dagger will settle one or two accounts!”

“Strike shrewdly, then! Make every stroke tell! You too, with that cudgel, Pentlow!”

The two men fell behind his swifter progress; but, even leaping cat-footed along the cobbles, Robin was still some yards short of the vehicle, when all Hell broke loose ahead. The ruffians had reached the coach. 

Drawing his second sword – a heavy sabre, rather than the lighter duelling foil of which he was the consummate master – he cast all notion of secrecy aside, and hurled himself pell-mell into the crowd, even as the assailants tried to swerve around the panicked horses. From the corner of his eye, he perceived slight movement within the shadows on the far side – Dan, melding easily with the background!

With a joyful roar he leapt forward, setting about him indiscriminately with the clumsy blade. No need for _finesse_ with this scum! 

* * * *

The frightened horses were giving trouble! Dan could see the nearside one snaking its long neck, teeth bared, towards the nearest assailant; and silently cheered its efforts.

Nonetheless, in scant seconds someone would slip past and happen upon him! He shifted silently to raise the cudgel slowly over his head; allowing his screaming muscles, aching ribs and half-flayed back to take the weight gradually. He must ignore the pain if he was to bring it crashing down. He took a deep, painful breath.

Something erupted into the group on the far side. A cacophony of shrieks and profane rage arose.

At first, he could make out only the heavy blade, which rose and fell with killing regularity. Squinting through the chaos as bodies shifted, closed in again, and sank groundwards, he caught sight of a fair head in the centre of the _melee_. By watching it bob and weave, he was able to make out a little of what was happening.

At any moment expecting his rescuer to fall, overwhelmed by the superior numbers, Dan nonetheless continued to follow the slight figure, upright and agile, cutting a swathe through the tangle of foes.

The coach rocked and swayed as bodies crashed past and around it. 

He heard a grunt as wood connected with someone’s skull; and recognised Big Pentlow’s style. He and Dan had been thief-taking partners for several years.

Dan’s own moment came when a small-built assailant tried to slip beneath the horses’ bellies with a wicked dagger held at reverse-angle toward their soft undersides. Dan fished him out, sustaining a shallow slice to the upper arm before he could bring the cudgel down.

“Hah! Nimming Ned, as I live and breathe!” he muttered.

“Ah – Mr Carne; ye’re still with us then! Quite correct in your recognition. Macheath’s old gang work now with Diana Trapes to send human cargoes to the Indies, from whence she principally operates these days; or so we understand!” the Blind Beak’s voice informed him across the width of the coach, “Ware Ben Budge, off to y’r left!”

Dan aimed a kick backwards, connecting to something with a solid crunch, just as a further furore erupted at the mouth of the alley. In the distance, a bugle sounded.

“Lay off, lads! T’is the poxy military!” yelled someone; and the crowd began to melt away.

“Not before time!” pronounced the Blind Beak magisterially, “Can ye guide the chaise up there, Mr Carne? T’will be necessary to read the Riot Act in the presence of the Colonel.”

Thus it came about that Dan, resplendent in the Bow Street lock-up blanket, concluded the night of his rescue with a triumphal drive, coaxing his friends the horses towards the distant _flambeaux_.

* * * *

“I fear,” announced Master Fielding mildly, “That I shall require your aid in descending this chaise!”

Robin, driving the vehicle himself, since he’d had no desire to see John again this night, cursed softly as he drew up at No. 4 Bow Street.

He was betrayed into a low chuckle, however, when he perceived the Blind Beak seated primly upright, supporting Dan’s compact (and very shapely) torso which was draped across him. The Ethiop was so deeply asleep that he barely stirred when Robin lifted him across to the contrary seat, and guided Master Fielding from the coach to his own door.

He rather hoped, as he drove briskly along the Strand towards Charing Cross, that Dan would remain blissfully unconscious once they arrived at _The Countess_ ’ rooms. The man’s back and bruised ribs were in dire need of attention. Withal, the stench of that hellhole hung about him still; and Robin looked forward to presiding (aided by a tin bath and copious hot, scented water) over the rectification of this involuntary piece of _mauvais ton_ on the part of his _bel ami_.


	12. Repercussions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John seeks solace; and Robin has an unwelcome encounter.

Samuel Drybutter, a house-gown hastily thrown over his nightshirt, answered the urgent summons, beaten out in a desperate tattoo on the side-door, with profane reluctance. Raising the handy slap-stick which he kept always by the entrance, he eased the door open.

The man who stood shivering out there in the pre-dawn chill presented such a woebegone spectacle that Drybutter stared, letting the door swing open of its own accord.

“Missie Maggie! What ails ye, man? T’is late …”

“Let me in, Sam! I’d fain cut my throat, and could think of no place else to go!”

“There’ll be no _felo de se_ on my premises, sweet man! Come in, do; and tell old Sukie all about it!”

Drybutter stepped aside to let the man by and, pausing only to re-secure the door and discard the weapon, followed his guest upstairs.

I’ve a _soupçon_ of hollands,” he offered, “Or some good French brandy that never saw the inside of a Customs House. Sit thee down, my dear, and tell me the full tale!”

* * * *

John gave way, and dropped down on Miss Sukie’s _chaise longue_ like a string-cut puppet.

“I delayed destroying the blackamoor’s Writings, and now t’is I who am destroyed!”

“Dearie-me!” responded Miss Sukie placidly, “Y’r _Countess_ discovered them then, I collect?”

“Yes … and made me tell where I’d taken the fuckster! And now tonight …….”

The whole sorry tale poured out of him like a bout of the squitters after spoiled pork.

“And the worst of it, Miss Sukie,” he concluded, “Is that I wouldn’t condemn a dog to that hellhole! I’ve seen bad places in my time; and met bad people too, but … I wish I’d never had to see that! Nor smell it neither. I can’t be sorry that those blackamoors – even Jamaica Mary … and the childer … all got away!”

“Y’re a good man, John!” murmured Miss Sukie, softly like a benison, “So, what from here, then?”

“Damned if I know!” admitted John, “There’s small chance that Master R .. I mean _The Countess_ , will take me back now. And His Lordship will surely have words for my failure, since t’was on his orders ….”

He broke off, and downed a tumbler of hollands; throwing it down his gullet in such manner that it never touched the sides.

Drybutter promptly refilled the glass with a deep crimson burgundy.

“Take that down a mite more slowly; allowing y’rself to savour it a little!” he recommended, “Ye’ll stay over, my dear, and the morning may bring fresh counsel!”

John ignored the advice as to taking the wine doucely; and, by way of consequence, was barely aware when Miss Sukey divested him precipitately of jacket, waistcoat, britches and boots; and tucked him neatly on the far side of the bed, in the one decent chamber that the premises boasted.

* * * *

Robin pulled gently on the reins to slow the horses to a walk as the chaise neared its destination. He was about to turn their heads into the very limited mews at the rear of _The Countess_ ’ apartment, when a loud, jovial, and most unwelcome voice smote his ears.

“Ho, Robin! Robin Tremaine! Whither away, scamp? Will ye cut your own good-brother then? And here was I about to command a Chair! Now, ye may return me in style to Clarges Street!”

Robin cursed. What evil fate had cast his sister’s man into his path tonight of all nights?

“Give ye good e’en, oh Mountain!” he nonetheless retorted, “What wind blows Sir Anthony Fanshawe to these parts? And Prue? Is she with you?”

“Devil a bit, my little man. She sends her dear love; but remains at Wych End with the bairn!” Sir Anthony paused, and gave Robin a strange look from beneath his brows, “And Mistress Letty? How fares she?”

“Oh, well, very well!” replied Robin airily, “As ye know – since y’re bid there come Eastertide, she awaits the lying-in at Barham Court!”

“Remind me,” said Fanshawe pensively, “What urgent affair keeps you here in Town?”

Robin bit his lip, glad that the declining moon provided insufficient light to show the colour in his face. He decided that nought would serve here but to brazen it out.

“Letty don’t want a man around to see her in less than her usual radiant looks,” he tried, adding with a short laugh, “There’ll be time enow come Eastertide!”

“You think so? Well t’is y’re own business, after all. I but mention that My Prue expresses a certain … disquiet at y’re lingering here. Doubtless t’is but a sister’s fears speaking?”

“Oh, she was ever Madame Prudence!” _riposted_ Robin, “Alack, I must leave ye here – having business in the building hard by. Ye’ll find a Chair soon enow at Charing Cross!”

“Deserted! And in such a chancy place, too!” exclaimed Sir Anthony in mock dismay, “Well, dear boy, we shall doubtless meet at y’r father’s table where I’m bid tomorrow to dine. Erm … commend me to y’r wife when next ye write!”

“Be sure I shall!” called Robin, as the large figure turned away.

Phew! That had been a close-run thing! Now to get Dan inside, where a servant was already installed to render any aid necessary!


	13. Face-to-face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the rescue, Dan and Robin meet for the first time.

Dan lay on his side in a half-foetal position that afforded the least discomfort to his flayed back, whilst simultaneously avoiding the stabs of agony that occasionally ambushed his ribs.

He had been awake since before the light began seeping beneath the closed bed-curtains. He had no idea where he was; and cared even less.

He had begun the patient mental reconstruction of the smashed mosaic that was his life, piece by shattered piece. The slight attention-demanding twinges in his bladder could wait!

Firstly and most importantly, he was still alive, delivered from Hell by that same mysterious intervention that (he suspected) had put him there.

_The Countess_!

It had been _her_ voice that had called him back from the death-stupor into which he had retreated.

It had, however, been Kate Merriot’s servant John who had been in on his capture and had taunted him over the Writings _debacle_. So – since Kate was one with _The Countess_ \- then ….then it followed that ……

Dan scrambled once more for his disintegrating thought-process ….

….the servant had probably stolen his Writings and sold him to the slavers because he knew Dan was one of the Fieldings’ people … Miss Sukie ….. damn! Therefore, the servant also knew of the threat to his … Mistress? … no, master, surely!

… therefore Dan had likely been right in his suspicions. _Countess_ Kate was indeed the elusive Robin Lacey, escaped Jacobite! He had a distinct impression that someone had hailed a “Robin!” last night.

…. _Robin Tremaine!_ That had been the rich, deep rounded voice somewhere near the end of the coach-journey.

Dan released his mind to drift at last where it would; and in a little while phrases spoken by that distinctive voice, which now he began to recognise from some other time, swam into his mind.

_Clarges Street_ … a Toff of the Toffs then; commented that inner part of him that had been of most use to the Fieldings.

_Lying-in at Barham Court_ …. A country-seat somewhere; and an imminent birth.

_Commend me to y’r WIFE, when next ye write_ ….. 

Dan opened reluctant eyes. That had been addressed to the fair swordsman with the voice of The Countess; to Robin Lacey or Tremaine; to his _bel ami_.

He sat up abruptly, ignoring his protesting body. He must leave here – wherever ‘here’ might be! He had little idea where to go; was just sure – like a wounded cur – that he must find a lair far away from the hurts, to heal himself.

Swinging his heavy legs over the side of the bed, he drew the curtains back, encountering a blinding dazzle of morning light.

“Good! Y’re awake! How goes it with ye this fine morning, Daniel Carne?”

So much for his half-scrambled plan for a speedy retreat! Egad, but he was unready for this encounter!

His bladder came to his aid; making its imperative demands felt, and driving all other thoughts from his mind.

“I have to .. use the facilities!” he said thickly.

“Behind the screen,” replied the figure who was seated in the window opposite, “I’ll leave ye, to’t, Dan. There’s a house gown on the chair; and breakfast in the adjoining room when ye’re ready!”

And with that, Dan was left temporarily to his own devices.

* * * *

For the first time in his life, during encounters of this kind, Robin felt unsure of his ground.

No good would ever come of allowing the disparate elements of his life – of his own self – to mix and merge; John had often warned him. 

Indeed, only the resolute conviction that he was not – _could never have been_ – someone called Kate Merriot, had carried him through the early days of his entry into Polite Society as Robin Tremaine.

Yet here he sat, before a table piled high with food, in a room that was pleasantly redolent of coffee, ready to reveal to _The Countess_ ’s man, his own face.

Kate, _the Countess_ and Robin the Adventurer, Dan had already encountered. Remained only Tremaine of Barham.

Here in the rather undistinguished dining room, in an anonymous set of rooms by Charing Cross, Robin would face the man he loved, but had inadvertently betrayed; naked and shorn of the masks he habitually affected in the twin causes of survival; his own and the House of Tremaine.

The inner door shifted, and began to swing open.

Robin braced himself.


	14. The Last Debate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dan finally encounters the complex personality that is Robin Tremaine.

Dan – toiletted, cleaned and resplendent in the garish sunrise-brocade of the house-gown and crimson Morocco slippers, took an unsteady breath as he opened the door.

“Ye eschewed the turban!” cried _The Countess_ ’ voice by way of greeting, “But otherwise ye’re truly and indeed The Patriarch of the Realm of Prester John!”

“Still plain Jamaica Mary,” growled Dan, “But you, now! Tremaine of Barham, I hear tell; and prospective father to the heir. Is’t not so?”

The blond sprig, who had jumped to his feet at Dan’s entrance, met his eye with a clear blue gaze, despite the tide of red that suffused the thin, aristocratically pale skin on his cheekbones.

“So ye overheard Anthony! Damn his meddling!”

“Meddling or no, is’t the truth?”

As pale now, as he had been rosy before, the man gave answer.

“Aye! But, Dan – _The Countess_ …. “

“Speak no more of _her_!” Dan roared, “I LOVE _The Countess_!”

The raw cry burned like acid in his throat, and he gazed at his adversary in dumbfounded horror at the inconvenient Truth that his lips had uttered.

After a stricken moment, it came to Dan that Tremaine was not about to take horrendous advantage of this involuntary confession. Indeed, if anything, he seemed more discomposed than Dan.

“ _The Countess_ loves you also!” he said finally.

Dan, still unnerved and angry, spoke his thought unvarnished; thereby hitting squarely in the gold.

“And Tremaine of Barham? And the dangerous Robin Lacey? What of them?”

At that, the square chin lifted and _The Countess_ ’s blue eyes were haughty.

“Robin Tremaine is happily married to Mistress Letty, and Milord Barham his father lives in daily expectancy of becoming a grandfather. In the meantime, Milord has instructed Honest John, the family retainer, to remove certain inconveniences in the life of his heir. Bold Robin Lacey the adventurer, meanwhile, is still half in love with his Prince over the water!”

Dan made a rapid calculation.

“And the other half of Robin Lacey’s love?”

The wistful, mischievous eyes of _The Countess_ regarded him soberly from the face of this unknown young toff.

“Yours!” he admitted, “The Bonny Prince is gone forever, and t’was you who rekindled the fires of adventure in me. You and Master Fielding rather – but I doubt the good Magistrate would accept the love of an attainted Jacobite; and male, to boot!”

Dan, deep in cogitation, barely acknowledged the pleasantry.

“So, of the three disparate souls within that slim body, I hold sway over approximately two? Remains only Tremaine of Barham! Might there be – “ he took a deep, plunging breath, and committed himself to an unchancey future, “- a place for us, despite the wife and coming-heir, Robin Tremaine?”

“I … have considered that question also!” admitted Tremaine.

“Then – saving my complete lack of either prospect or income – remains only the question of Jamaica Mary and Tremaine of Barham! What service would an unemployed thief-taker and mollie be able to render a Viscount’s heir, Robin?”

“Egad, t’is the first time ye’ve called me by name, Dan! T’is sweet hearing!”

“Ye’re an accomplished flirt, in each and every guise! But no prevarication, now. What would you of me?”

“I would have someone know all three of my disparate selves!”

“Aside from Honest John, I suppose. But what of that part which belongs by right to Mistress Letty and the unborn heir?”

“I had some thoughts anent that!” replied Robin eagerly, “It seems to me that you and That Part might become business partners. What say you to _Carne and Tremaine_ , thief-takers and investigators of dubious happenings amongst the ton, Dan? I could set ye up a bureau in the Town House, give ye lodgings there and …. “

“No!” interrupted Dan immediately, “A worse and more hurtful plan I never yet heard! Shame on ye, Tremaine! Have ye no regard for y’r Lady, nor for my safety under the same roof as the father who might have Honest John murder me at any moment? T’is downright indulgence to expect all three of y’r rogueries together at y’r family home!”

Dan paused in his tirade, and took a deep steadying breath.

“Ye know well,” he went on in more moderate a tone, “That I ha’ the propensity and desire for just such a business as ye propose! I’d even countenance _Carne and Tremaine_ ; but, if you please, I’ll take us an office in the City, near to both the lawyers and Bow Street! Contacts will be a necessity in such a game as this!”

Robin, who had rather wilted beneath Dan’s ire, now recovered tone, remarking that two out of three, and a business venture of impeccable correctness was good enough for him.

Dan eyed him somewhat askance.

“That was a _Countess_ ’ trick thus to rile me to no purpose!”

Robin laughed.

“There’s always a purpose, pretty man! I like – _The Countess_ likes – some fire in my _amours_. Also – “ he added hastily, as Dan growled and made to rise, “I was sore frighted by the state o’ ye last evening; and that’s a fact!”

“So ye should be, since t’was your servant brought me to that hellhole!” retorted Dan, “But ye’ve indulged yourself by patching me with linen-strips, and held my soul together another day! I still live, _Countess_! Ye contrived to save my sorry arse!”

“Ah now – Lacey would fain make trial of that same arse. So haste with y’r healing, pretty man! In the meantime, make free of these rooms, which are taken in _The Countess_ ’ name for the next quarter. She’ll mayhap visit here frequently. What say you to Vauxhall once more on Friday next?”

Dan regarded the man, a slight crease between his brows. Since he had been of sufficient age and circumstance to have any choice in the matter, he had not been in the habit of allowing anyone the freedom of his arse. However, he had hardly been in this deeply (or this messily) with any of his lovers before this.

If he were to entrust someone in that way – would it really be this feckless, soul-divided nobleman?

He was ambushed by a rush of desire so overwhelming that he shifted sharply in his chair; and was consequently caught by a lancing agony in his injured ribs. He groaned aloud in mingled pain and frustration.

“Dan? What ails ye, man?”

“Ribs!” gasped Dan, acutely aware that the discomfort had failed entirely to subdue his agitated cock.

“Forgive me, Dan! Here I’ve kept ye up debating, when ye should be abed again. Here – let me help you up!”

Dan foolishly allowed himself to be assisted; with the speedy result that Robin announced, sotto voce –

“Oho! The cracked ribs do not hinder the constable’s ready staff! Let us essay a little comfort with bolster and pillow; and thereafter, Relief might be contrived for the Essential Man. Yes?”

Dan baulked a little.

“I lack the fitness for Robin Lacey’s games; and Robin Tremaine is yet a stranger to me!”

“Close your eyes, Dan!” suggested his companion; and when he complied – “T’is thus easier to evoke me!” cooed the voice of _The Countess_.

A familiar waft of attar of roses accompanied the words.


	15. Cementing the alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous dalliance seals the compact.
> 
> **Warning** : Rated NC17

Robin, adept at the swift change and interplay of his three Masks, did no more than remove his shoes, buff riding jacket, and shirt; and free his hair from its confining buckle. Thereafter, he relied upon the liberal use of the perfume to evoke _The Countess_ in Dan’s senses.

_She_ had, of course, attained _her_ heart’s desire with Dan’s hard-wrung profession of love; whereas Lacey and Tremaine must make shift with the man’s cautious acceptance, and investigate further oblique approaches, in the times-to-come that they had won for themselves.

In the meantime, Robin decided, Dan’s greatest need was for the straightforward and familiar ribaldry of _The Countess_ ’ approach.

He pulled _The Countess_ ’ all-enveloping day-gown over britches and clocked stockings; and slowly drew back the bed-curtain at Dan’s feet.

The man had cheated! His dark eyes were wide-open and full of desperate hope. _The Countess_ responded immediately; making a moue whilst simultaneously striking a provocative pose.

“Oathbreaker!” _she_ accused dramatically, “How may a _Lady_ conduct _herself_ decorously, with the eye of the Law always upon _her_ , pretty man?”

Dan’s white teeth flashed from the shadows.

“T’is too great a temptation – even for this ex-man-at-law – to hold to complete obedience before y’r manifold charms, even in this wounded state, _Milady_!”

_The Countess_ slid her eyes to where the house robe displayed a most definite protrusion.

“La, sir; how you flatter me! For, see – wounded or no – y’r trusty staff is yet again raised to salute me!”

The Ethiop laughed so long and hard that he was forced, coughing, to hold his ribs as he caught a crowing breath; thus abating the interesting state of the robe.

_The Countess_ hastened to amend this mishap.

Bending low over the supine body on the bed, _she_ contrived to slide the voluminous garment clear up to the man’s armpits, throwing the hems over his face in the process.

Smiling gleefully at the muffled oaths that followed this manoeuvre, _The Countess_ took the lowered staff in hand and – skilful fingers toying and playing – teased it back to full readiness once more.

Dan’s utterances had now ceased to resemble coherent speech of any kind. His torso moved erratically, attempting an upward thrust; but _she_ forestalled him, grasping his hip with one shapely, sinewy hand.

“Be still sweet man, and allow y’r humble servant to encompass All to y’r liking!”

And, so saying, _she_ swung agilely between his legs and, without moving the restraining hand, bent lower to swallow him down even to the very root. _She_ heard his stifled scream, and was satisfied.

In one way; reflected _The Countess_ : this was easy. _She_ had been accustomed to perform this service many times in dubious houses throughout Europe. However, the present occasion was unique because the man who writhed beneath _her_ expert ministrations was _her_ finally-discovered true-love. _The Countess_ was at last content with _her_ man; and would spare no pains to please him.

Incoherent words finally made way for moans, and the occasional terse exhortation. _The Countess_ , well-versed in this dance, held him teetering on the brink until the obscene suggestions became threats. Finally, sucking in _her_ cheeks and puckering taut lips to surround him snugly, _she_ caressed his stifled length one last time with the tip of _her_ agile tongue.

It was enough. Dan’s back arched, and his hips bucked against _The Countess_ ’ restraining hands, giving his All deep inside _her_ throat. As the bow-strung tension left his torso, he commenced trembling like a _blanc manger_ for a considerable time.

_The Countess_ , recovering in several genteel gulps from the liberality of his effusion, hastened to remove _her_ weight, and daintily restore his house-gown to its accustomed decency.

Dan’s face, eyes closed and lips parted, had that transient aspect of Youth that is Venus’ especial gift at that fleeting time between The Act and The Mundane. _The Countess_ beheld it rejoicing; since it bespoke that pinnacle of intimacy so often desired but so rarely achieved except by the agency of Cupid’s own Dart.

_She_ reclined – with due care – across his shoulder and upper torso, _her_ sword-wielder’s arms clipping him closer than death. The tremors subsided until his lax body was barely breathing.

_She_ thought he had slipped imperceptibly into slumber; and was preparing to withdraw, when –

“There is no-one like you in all this City of Accomplished Vice, _Mistress_ Mine!” he mumbled sleepily.

“Charmed to know it!” replied _The Countess_ huskily, “And so – shall it be Vauxhall once more come Friday, sweet man?”

“An ye accompany me both there and back, even to this very bed; defending me from all harm; then – yes, I would like that above all things!”

_She_ became immediately businesslike.

“Then ye’ll need more clothing, since ye were so careless as to mislay y’r previous ensemble. However, T’would be _un peu mauvais ton_ to appear at Vauxhall in the same costume twice, so …. “

Still without opening his eyes, the Ethiop cut briskly through this badinage.

“Did I not hear last night that Tremaine must perforce dine at home this evening, to receive Anthony of the sonorous voice who was kind enow to appraise me of the coming Happy Event?”

Robin (back to himself now) bit his lip. His lover’s voice continued inexorably.

“Thus, I find I should haste if I’m to requite ye for _The Countess_ ’ wondrous performance just past!”

“No!” Robin’s voice had regained its masculine timbre, “T’was a gift! An ye feel the need to respond, ye may do so at Vauxhall. In the meantime - ” his sigh this time had very little of the languorous in it, “T’is true that Tremaine must away to dine with his good-brother at his father’s house, alack! The boy will minister to y’r wants this e’en, Dan; and, come the morrow, Tremaine will discuss with you the minutiae of our business-venture!”

“May I make plain,” Dan’s voice was now entirely his own, with no trace of Jamaica Mary in the crisp tone, “That – anent _Carne and Tremaine_ – I work for a salary only? An my ribs heal cleanly, I’ll make trial of divers City premises – offices with lodgings above - and there shall I make my home. _The Countess_ may visit there, or keep these rooms, as she pleases!”

“I trust,” _The Countess_ replied softly, “That ye’ll not be insulted by the odd love-gift I may feel impelled to bestow from time to time, upon the sweet man to whom my heart is given?”

The Ethiop’s reply held a low purl of laughter.

“I may graciously deign to accept, _Mistress_ Mine!” then – in an altered voice – “Egad! T’is a rare dance I’m led, thus to please all three of y’r Masks, Robin Lacey! My arse shall pay for all, if but I recover fully. And so, good night to ye, Robin; and to Tremaine; and to you, my sweetest _Lady_!”

The man’s breathing became once more low and even. He appeared – finally – to lapse into full slumber.

Pausing only to shed _The Countess_ ’ accoutrements, and to leave the customary bulging purse on the over-mantel, Tremaine crept from the room unspent; and yet truly and finally satisfied.


	16. Conclusions and beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The start of a new partnership.
> 
> **Notes** : follow at the end.

(three months later)

“Sir Anthony Fanshawe, I collect?” greeted Dan warily.

“Indeed, and you will be Mr Carne! I bear a commission for Carne and Tremaine from my good-father, Milord Barham!”

“What? Why should Tremaine’s father ….?”

“Why-ever not?” responded Sir Anthony doucely, “This premises, I take it, houses a venture entered into by his son, and he is naturally anxious to see it thrive!”

“Really?” queried Dan incredulously.

“Truly! Therefore we bring you a commission of peculiar delicacy, which is of vital interest to the House of Tremaine. Milord will require you to travel abroad with the utmost urgency (please make use of the yacht at anchor beyond Catherine’s Dock) and locate his cousin Rensley with the aim of … erm …. nullifying a renewed threat to Milord’s tranquillity. Robin will meet you at Calais with all particulars. Put up at the _Coq d’Or_ and enquire for _The Countess_!” 

“And Honest John too, I suppose?” ventured Dan, resorting to hard-edged sarcasm to hide his astoundedness.

“John Burton – if t’is he you mean – is currently at Barham Court,” replied Fanshawe serenely, “At the sole disposal of Mistress Letty and the Succession! As Milord Barham is given to understand, it will now be **your** task, Mr Carne, to take thought and care for the heir himself!” he paused, then added a trifle pensively, “I should, of course, have known that poor little Letty alone, would be insufficient to hold that scamp to his duty, lineage and indeed, life!”

Dan regarded Sir Anthony’s reminiscent smile with disfavour, and blurted his acidic accusation without due forethought.

“Ye’d a mind to him yourself!”

“Devil a bit, I swear! Ye must bear in mind that I made first acquaintance with Mistress Kate Merriot – a most flirtatious jade, in truth! But recall – I found myself drawn more to his sister, my dearest Prue!”

“Of course!” Dan blushed, “Y’r pardon, sir!”

“Granted! Now - ye may, of course, draw on Milord Barham for any expenses. Present this draft to Hoare’s before ye leave! As to the fee, half may be claimed from Milord’s men of law, Brent and Clapperly; payment of the rest to be dependent upon a successful outcome! Do the terms suffice?”

“I … suppose so ….!” said Dan, too dumbfounded to chaffer.

“Excellent! Then ye should be at the _Coq d’Or_ three days from now! A pleasure doing business with so outspoken a gentleman! Good fortune, Mr Carne! Ye’ll need it an ye contemplate a lifetime with that scamp! Good day t’ ye!”

Left alone, Dan regarded his future with rueful humour, whilst his hands busied themselves with the necessities for a hasty departure. 

There would be neither let or stay; and nothing of the humdrum about serving Tremaine!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This tale involved a fair amount of research into mid-C18 society and customs. Since this kind of ferreting-about in the far reaches of The Internet and in my chaotic collection of books, had a big impact on how the story got formulated, I thought I’d share some of the sources.
> 
> **The Date** :  
> I have taken liberties with the exact date, and fudged it rather a lot. This is partly owing to the fact that _City of Vice_ was allegedly set in 1753, but was itself a bit ‘unhistorical’ (for example, the Fieldings didn’t at that time inhabit a house in Bow Street; nor were the Bow Street Runners known by that name until much later). I plumped for a slightly earlier date (since it was important to encompass the period when attainted Jacobites were still being hunted). So 1749/50, JUST about covers this; as well as the early activities of the Runners.
> 
> **The Characters** :  
> All the main characters can be found either in _City of Vice_ ; or _The Masqueraders_. The part of Daniel Carne, by the way, was played by Sean Francis..
> 
> **The Fieldings, Saunders Welch, Samuel Drybutter** , and **Princess Serafina** are historically factual; as are the mentioned **George Frederic Handel, The Duke of Cumberland and Prince Charles Edward (‘Bonnie Prince Charlie’)**.
> 
> I have borrowed the **Slaver Gang** from John Gay’s two musical plays, _The Beggar’s Opera_ and _Polly_. They are the original members of Macheath’s gang, working with Diana Trapes the procuress who shifted her operation to the Caribbean (cf _Polly_ , a play of immense cultural significance which was banned by the Lord Chancellor during Gay’s lifetime). 
> 
> **The Places** :
> 
> **Bow Street** : No. 4, Bow Street became famous as the headquarters of Magistrates John and Henry Fielding; and in fact the site has housed a Magistrates’ court continuously ever since, right up to the trial of Otis Ferry for his Parliamentary-trespassing stunt in 2006. 
> 
> **Charing Cross** in fact, did appear in _Masqueraders_ as the scene of the mohocks’ attack on Pru. Today it is well-known as the main railway terminus from Kent; but in C18 the name referred to the south-east corner of what is now Trafalgar Square. 
> 
> **Covent Garden** : Nowadays this area is a tourist attraction. However, in C18 the area was notorious for its brothels, bath-houses and theatres. Thus the Bow Street Magistracy – on its very doorstep – bore the brunt of all the associated crime. Theatres in those days were not the high-art places they are today, even if they were showing Shakespeare or opera! For example – the site of the Royal Opera House then housed the newly-built Theatre Royal, erected by John Rich on the proceeds of _The Beggar’s Opera_.
> 
> **Fountain Tavern, Strand** : was known as a meeting-place of the political opponents of Robert Walpole.
> 
> **The Hellhole** : I didn’t specify where the slave-lockup was situated, but there were docks all along the Thames in C18, including quite a large one where the Fleet River entered it near Blackfriars. Nowadays the Fleet is one of the “lost rivers of London”, and is rumoured to have its exit point into the Thames via an outflow pipe under the north entrance to Blackfriars road-Bridge. The lockup – essentially a warehouse for export-goods – might be anywhere near the river. Also, Deptford Creek (where Marlowe met his end) and further East around the _Prospect of Whitby_ public house might be alternative venues.
> 
> **The Smut** :
> 
> The sex-description in _Serving Termaine_ is stylised and intentionally flowery. A debt here to _Fanny Hill_ 's scenes of both straight and gay sex (although the latter is thought to be a later interpolation, possibly by Samuel Drybutter).
> 
> Many of the more earthy ballads resort to elaborate symbolism to describe The Act, and I used this type of conceit with the ‘naval’ account of Dan’s first encounter with _The Countess_.
> 
> Also Thomas d’Urfey’s _Pills to Purge Melancholy_ was well-known and appreciated throughout this period; I quote extensively from _"Would you have a Young Virgin of Fifteen Years"_ for the plot to steal Dan’s Certificate of Manumission and I intended it to be a copy of this ballad that John placed in Dan’s scrip instead of the Manumission.
> 
> _The Countess_ also quotes a verse from _My Husband's Got No Courage In Him_ at _her_ first encounter with Dan.


End file.
